


So Long, Lonesome

by Abby_S



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Divergent Post 8x23, Canon-Typical Violence, Fallen Angels, Gen, Homelessness, M/M, Magical Artifacts, Major Character Injury, Men of Letters Headquarters, Mythology - Freeform, Original Character Death(s), Other: See Story Notes, Post Season/Series 08, References to Castiel/Other(s), Sexual Content, Slow Build, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 13:15:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 50,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abby_S/pseuds/Abby_S
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Metatron drains him of his Grace, Castiel chooses to stay away from the Bunker. However, as he struggles with the downsides of his new humanity, his past catches up with him, forcing him to make a long-delayed call. </p><p>After six months spent apart, he is faced with Dean's resentment and the slow deterioration of Sam's health. </p><p>When his quest for penance awakens an ancient entity, born from the ashes of a forgotten Prophecy, the choices he is forced to make might rattle the very structure of the world as he knows it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer & additional warnings in the end notes (contain spoilers for the fic)
> 
> Please bear in mind that this story has been written in complete disregard of most of the spoilers for season 9. I tried to add the tags for the entire story. However, it is possible that I forgot some, in which case I will add them along with the chapters :) Anyway, it's my first time writing something set in the canon verse, other than a few ficlets here and there. I hope you'll like it :)
> 
> Thanks to [VeraBAdler](../../users/VeraBAdler/pseuds/VeraBAdler) and [YumeNoTsuzuki](../../users/YumeNoTsuzuki) for the proofreading/advising/encouragements.

 

 

# Part One

 

After watching his brethren fall, Castiel doesn’t feel anything. No sadness, no guilt, no terror. Rather, he feels... numb. Disconnected from reality. He knows, in a very distant part of his mind, that it won’t last, but it doesn’t concern him.

 _I should leave_ , he thinks.

This thought freezes him with a sudden burst of panic, because for the first time in his almost-eternal life, Castiel _doesn’t know where he is_. It’s nighttime and everything is silent, save for the occasional cry of an animal. He can barely see anything. He thinks there are trees, a worrying outline in the distance. He is standing in what looks like some kind of a meadow, and the moment he registers that is also the moment when he realizes that his feet are wet inside his shoes. Soaked with the dew. This realization, more than the sight of his brethren’s burning wings, more than the terrible _silence_ in his head, this realization chases the numbness away. He looks down, eyes wide, even if he can’t actually see his own feet. And something unfurls in his chest, something burning and bitter that rises and _rises_ until he is choking with it.

He looks up and there are no stars anymore. Some logical part of his brain points out that the clouds are probably masking them, but Castiel feels something crush his heart and squeeze it and he releases a gagging breath. He feels like his own stomach is spinning around because _there are no stars_.

“What have I done?” he chokes out, falling to his knees. He looks up, hoping maybe that someone will answer him. Nothing comes. Nothing ever comes, really. The Skies have always been silent to his pleas. So he repeats, for himself more than anything, “What have I _done_?”

These words turn inside his head until he can’t think about anything else, can’t think _Dean, Sam, help me, I need you_. Can’t think _Meg, I wish you were here, I wish you were alive_. Can’t think of anything else, really, except maybe for the fleeting thought that the numbness was good, the numbness was safe. Now, the dam has yielded and he realizes that the low, hurt sound echoing in the air is coming from his own throat. Something raw and human.

There are no tears on his cheeks when he curls into a ball on the ground, just the cold he can feel through his coat and the realization that he is alone. _Alone_.

He falls asleep wishing he could never wake up.

***

Castiel opens his eyes to a pounding headache. His body is shaking. He’s _cold_ like he has never been cold before. His teeth are chattering and he sits up with a groan, trying to stretch his stiff muscles. There’s a rumbling sound coming from his stomach, something he recognizes as hunger, and his bladder is full and aching. He stands on shaky legs. His hands are sore as he opens his zipper to relieve himself. He’s ashamed – shame, what a new and unhelpful feeling – ashamed to do this here, ashamed of the pressing needs his body is throwing at him with no user manual. He knows that he needs to find something to eat, something to drink, but there is no civilization as far as his weak eyes can see. If he concentrates enough, he thinks he can hear the distant rumble of cars passing, but he’s not sure whether it's real or just wishful thinking.

He looks around, hoping to find some sign of where to go. There is nothing. At his right, there is a forest. At his left, there is a forest. In front of him, the meadow is spreading, green under the gray, cloudy sky.

“Where?” he asks himself.

He decides for trying to find the road, his steps heavy on the wet grass.

***

He's been walking for what feels like hours, trying to quell the discouragement and the certainty that he is going to die here, alone and lost, when he finally sees it. It's a sinuous, large road, and he wants to laugh with relief because where there is a road, there is humanity.

“Dean,” he breathes, because it’s all he can think about, _Dean_. He knows Dean must be worried, he knows Dean must think he’s hurt, or worse. His heels are achy and he must smell awful, and all he can think is _forgive me_.

Because Castiel will not prove him wrong. He thinks about the sight of wings burning in the sky, thinks about the way he will be hunted and powerless to protect Sam and Dean against the consequences of his own mistakes.

Castiel can’t get to them.

He’s completely and utterly _alone_.

So Castiel walks, and walks, trying to ignore the persistent hunger clawing at his stomach. He mumbles encouragements under his breath, tries to convince himself that it's worth it. He is on the verge of shouting out loud his rage and his _fucking helplessness_ when a trucks pulls over on the side of the road. Castiel stops, straightens, and turns. The window slides open and a man’s head appears. He looks harmless enough, but Castiel falls into defensive mode by reflex.

“Where’ ya goin’, fella?” the man hollers. He reminds Castiel of Bobby with his grumpy expression and his beard, but he could be a demon for all Castiel knows. He doesn’t think he would be able to tell, now.

“I don’t know,” Castiel answers. “Where does this road go?”

The man looks at him like he's grown a second head, a frown marring his wrinkled forehead.

“This one? Downers Grove, La Grange, Chicago. But ya’ not there yet. Still two hundred miles to go. I’m headed to Chicago. Need a ride?”

Castiel hesitates, looks at the man long and hard, hoping for a miracle, for some kind of intuition, but nothing comes. A mere week ago, he was able to tell if a soul was evil just with a glance. He was able to smell the stench of a demon without even seeing it. Now, he’s just another human. Vulnerable and breakable.

The man’s frown deepens.

“I’m not gonna eat ya, buddy.”

“ _Christo_ ,” Castiel says. The man looks uneasy, glances around, then back at him.

“What?”

It is the confusion in his tone that crumbles Castiel’s mistrust. He nods tightly and rounds the truck to open the passenger door. The interior smells strongly of cigarettes and dust. Castiel takes a deep breath. He has never had to rely on his fluttering human senses before, and the sensation is heady, almost scorching.

“Thank you,” he says, staring straight ahead to avoid the man’s curious gaze.

“Don’t mention it,” the man grumbles. The truck trembles and coughs a thick smoke when he restarts it. Castiel has to clear his throat when the smoke invades the cab. His mouth is scratchy and he longs for a glass of water. “Name’s Henry. You?”

“Jimmy.” The lie slips out of Castiel’s mouth smoothly, and he thinks that Dean would be proud. Names hold power. Right now, this power is all he has, and he’d like to keep it close to his chest.

“Well, Jimmy,” Henry says, “You look like you could use a sandwich.”

Without further ado, a plastic bag is thrown onto Castiel’s lap. He fumbles a little with it, grimacing at the slippery sensation against his stiff fingers. Inside, he finds several packages wrapped in aluminum foil.

“Help yourself. My girl made them,” Henry says. He’s still frowning, eyes rooted to the road, but Castiel is starting to think that it's his default expression. A tiny smile tugs at his lips.

“Thank you,” he says softly, and starts eating. He's probably biased, but it feels like it is the best thing he has ever eaten. Not that he has a huge frame of reference, of course, but the buttered bread and the ham melt in his mouth and he devours it with gusto. The radio is crackling around a country song, and Henry doesn’t say a word when Castiel wipes his greasy fingers on his coat – it's been ruined by his night outside, anyway – and leans back on his seat, willing his body to relax. His mouth is dry and he knows that he has bad breath, but he doesn’t dare to ask Henry for water.

Fortunately, he doesn’t have to wait long before Henry pulls a flask from next to him and takes a swig.

“Want some?” he asks, glancing sideways. Castiel nods, trying not to look too eager as he reaches for it. The water is lukewarm and holds a strong metallic taste, but that doesn’t stop him from gulping it down fervently. Eventually, he has to stop, for he doesn’t want to overstep the man’s generosity by finishing it. Henry chuckles but doesn’t comment when Castiel hands back the half-empty flask to him.

Castiel’s brain is pounding against his skull in a new way. It's not an unbearable pain, but something strident and persistent. It feels new, and he closes his eyes just for a second, to see if that will help.

Sleep claims him before he can find out.

***

Castiel wakes up to the screech of tires on concrete and a yell: “ _Learn to drive, dumbass_!” He starts, shoulders tensing and fists clenching instinctively. Looks around wildly to find the threat. The truck has stopped, and Henry is staring at the steering wheel with wide eyes, hand gripping it so tightly his knuckles are turning white.

“What happened,” Castiel says flatly, heart pounding against his ribcage.

“Some asshole cut me off,” Henry grits out. “Almost fell in a ditch trying to avoid them.”

Castiel exhales slowly, concentrates on calming his quivering pulse.

“Are you alright?” he asks eventually. Henry looks fine, if a little pale around the edges, but he still feels the need to make sure.

“Yeah,” Henry says, shrugging. “Comes with the job. This one was a close call.”

Castiel looks around and sees nothing but fields, as far as the eye can see. It’s a flat, bland landscape that gives nothing away about their location.

“Where are we?” he asks as Henry restarts the engine and lights a cigarette. The smell bothers Castiel, too harsh and too strong, but he tries not to let it show. Still, Henry opens his window and a wave of fresh air mixed with a chemical stench emanating from the surrounding fields fills the cab.

“Just got into Illinois,” Henry says around a puff of white smoke. Castiel notices that his hand is shaking a little and thinks that the man must be more upset that he cares to admit. “So,” Henry goes on. “Where’d you wanna go, son?”

Castiel thinks about it. He needs... he doesn’t really know what he needs. He needs to hide, that is one thing he knows for sure. He needs to avoid being seen, being noticed, being remembered. He needs –

“A big city.”

The look Henry sends his way is too knowing for Castiel’s liking. He sets his jaw and lifts his chin, staring back until Henry returns his gaze to the road.

“Chicago work for you?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, because the images that flood his mind when he hears this name are crowds of nameless people, brick buildings, anonymity. It’s exactly what he wants.

“Alright, then. Chicago it is.”

***

The next hour is spent in silence. They pause once, at a gas station. Castiel climbs out of the truck to stimulate his numb legs and find a restroom. There are a few crumpled dollar bills in his pocket, and though he doesn’t know where he acquired them, he’s all too happy to buy himself a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste at the store. He pisses, washes his hands, brushes his teeth, and splashes water on his face to get rid of the thin layer of sweat and dirt he can feel there.

When he goes back outside, Henry is leaning on the passenger door and sipping coffee from a steaming plastic cup. His features are gaunt with exhaustion. It makes Castiel wonder how long the man had been driving when he picked him on the side of this road.

Castiel leans next to him, taking care to leave the proper distance between them.

“Want one?” Henry asks, lifting his cup with a questioning look.

“Please,” Castiel answers. Henry nods, opens the door, climbs in, and rummages. When he jumps back on the ground, he’s holding a thermos bottle and another plastic cup. Castiel accepts the coffee gratefully, lets the bitter warmth and the familiar smell prickle his taste buds and his nose. They sip their coffee wordlessly, blinking slowly against the wind. It is the beginning of November, if Castiel remembers correctly. Here, the cold will torment him, will pierce his thin layer of clothes and freeze him to the bone. He sighs and cradles the cup between his two hands.

But Castiel will make it up as he goes. He always has.

***

Henry shakes his shoulder an hour later. He’d been drifting on and off, soothed by the rumbling sound of the engine and sleepy with the warmth of the heating. He blinks owlishly and straightens when he sees that the landscape has changed. It looks like they’re in some sort of industrial park. The vision isn’t really clashing with the heavy, gray sky and the hissing wind that makes the windows very nearly vibrate with its strength. Castiel can’t hold back a shiver. He was waiting for an _intuition_ , and what he feels here is a very human sense of foreboding.

“Are we here?” he asks hesitantly, peering through the window to get a better look at the brick buildings, darkened by pollution, casting ominous shadows on the ground.

“No, son, but ‘m already late for my delivery. I can’t get ya closer to the city center and ‘m not supposed to take hitchhikers so I can’t bring you with me,” Henry says apologetically. Castiel nods and tries to quell his newfound panic. What to do? Where to go? He gulps, but his voice is still raspy – raspier than usual – when he manages to choke out a _thank you._

“Wait a minute, Jimmy,” Henry growls when Castiel fumbles with the door handle. “I’m not leavin’ ya to wander in the street in those rags. Ya’d die of cold before y’know it.”

 Castiel doesn’t try to convince Henry that he has somewhere to go. He knows that it is obvious he is alone, and he doesn’t think he will ever become a good liar. So he lets Henry pull out a thick black overcoat and a leather shoulder bag from behind his seat and shove it unceremoniously in his hands.

“Here. Put this on.”

Castiel obeys. He doesn’t bother taking off his trench coat, preferring instead to shrug on the coat over it. The more layers, the better to fight off the cold. When he looks up, Henry is scribbling something on a wrinkled receipt. Then he pulls out his wallet and takes a handful of bills.

“Henry, I don’t need –” Castiel begins, but his protest is cut off by Henry’s glare.

“Don’t gimme that, son. Of course, you need it.”

He forces Castiel’s hand open and drops the bills and the receipt in it.

“Here’s my phone number. Once a month, I drive between Oklahoma City and Chicago. If you ever need a ride back, gimme a call. Don’t lose it.”

Castiel clamps his mouth shut and nods.

“Listen, son. In the streets, ya don’t trust anyone, hear me? There’s the rest of the sandwiches in this bag, and a knife. It can always be useful. Don’t get yourself into trouble,” Henry says, looking Castiel straight in the eyes. Castiel nods again.

“Thank you,” he says softly. “You are a good man, Henry.”

Henry looks uncomfortable. He scrunches up his nose, looks Castiel up and down, and something sad and tired crosses his eyes.

“You too, son.”

Castiel climbs out of the cab and shakes his head ruefully.

“I’m really not. Goodbye, Henry. I will never forget your help.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He just turns and starts walking down the dark street, walking towards a future more uncertain than ever.

***

Castiel spends his first night huddled in a sheet-metal shack he finds in a brownfield. He doesn’t sleep, too wound up by the constant movements he hears around him. He thought the area barren, but now that the light has seeped out of the sky he realizes that the place is no wasteland. He hears the creaking of a distant fire, the voices of people passing by – mostly men, though he sometimes hear a shrill, intoxicated laugh or the softer voice of a woman – and he curses himself for having sought shelter in such an obvious place. He knows that human torment takes more forms than can be counted. He also knows that misery loves company. He finds himself craving Dean’s voice or Sam’s kindness. Finds himself wishing he could be with them. But at the same time, he can’t even bear the thought of facing Dean again, knowing he caused his friend more pain than he ever thought possible. Now, drained of every drop of Grace he once possessed, he finds it ironical to be on Earth, trying to avoid the fate he would have accepted in Heaven with his arms open – gratefully, even. A part of him keeps hoping that, one day, he will be able to fix it up. Then maybe he will finally die. Die like one falls asleep and never comes back.

Castiel is tired, bone-deep tired. His existence has been so long and so misguided.

He tightens the overcoat around him, fist clenched around his switchblade knife. A poor protection against the world, but a protection nonetheless.

As he closes his eyes, he thinks for a split second that he can hear the distant echo of Dean’s prayers. This illusion, more than anything else, makes his throat tighten and tears well behind his eyelids.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

***

 

# Part Two

“Heya, Jimmy! All good?” a familiar voice yells when Castiel steps out of ‘his’ shack. It's nine o'clock and when he looks up, the sky is white with unshed snowflakes. He tips his head back and breathes in deeply to try and clear his impeded lungs. It doesn’t work, but he manages to hold back the hacking cough that had kept him awake for most of the night.

“I’m alright, Nora. Thank you,” he rasps, smiling at the woman who'd greeted him. Her dark hair is wet and her olive skin reddened by the forceful scrubbing she inflicts on herself every morning. The glare she sends back is full of her usual concern.

“Don’t you give me that shit, buddy. You kept the whole camp up with your choking,” she snaps, jumping to her feet and forcing him to sit down in one of the camp chairs.

“Here, take a joe,” she says, forcing a chipped mug into his hand. “It’ll warm you up.”

Castiel nods and takes a sip. The brew Nora calls coffee could exorcise a demon, but Castiel has grown to like it.

“Did I really keep you up?” he asks, idly adding a piece of crate into the container to feed the dying fire.

Nora shakes her head, her pretty face scrunched up in worry. “Nah, but –” she sighs and touches his chin with two fingers to tip his head back. “That’s a bad cough you got there, Jim. And it’s been two weeks. You should go –”

Castiel shakes free of Nora’s hold and glares at her.

“You know I can’t. Besides, it’s a cold, but it’s _just_ a cold. I’ve had worse.”

The skeptical look she sends his way doesn’t escape him. Neither does the irony of being fussed after for a cold when he has, indeed, suffered far worse. Fortunately, Nora knows when to back off. She sighs again, her rough hand coming down to pat Castiel’s cheek. 

“Whatever you say,” she grumbles.

It has been exactly two months since Castiel’s arrival in Chicago and he is... settling, if such a term exists in the crude world he has discovered. Castiel thinks Nora has grown fond of him. He can’t see the reason why, really, given that he almost slit her throat at their first encounter.

The morning after his horrible first night in the city, he’d woken up to Nora’s frowning face and had reacted on raw instinct. A mere second later, his knife was against Nora’s throat. To her credit, she hadn’t tried to free herself, only chuckled and said, “Easy, tiger.”

She hadn’t flinched at his _Christo_.

“It’s cold as balls today,” she’s saying when his brain reconnects with reality. She has used the exact same sentence every morning since Castiel met her. He hides his smile behind his coffee.

“What are your plans today?” he asks, rinsing the mug in the bucket of water placed here for this purpose. He stretches with a groan, arms rising toward the sky. He likes the sensation of the muscles waking up one by one. He feels Nora’s appreciative gaze skim over his body and tries to refrain from flushing. Nora doesn’t make it a secret that she likes his body, but she has never tried to go further. He probably wouldn’t say no if she did. The nights are cold and lonely, here.

“Find some food,” she answers when he turns to her. She’s smiling, and Castiel is hit with how _beautiful_ she is, in this unconventional way of hers. He doesn’t know her age, but can guess she's in her mid-forties. Her features remind Castiel of those of an Oriental queen he met hundreds of years ago, with a brand of grace that he thought long disappeared. When he had told her that, she hadn’t thought he was crazy. She’d just shaken her head and called him a flirt. The lines on her forehead were not brought there by laughter; they speak of pain, as does the pale scar crossing her right cheek. But Nora knows how to smile, and it fills Castiel’s heart with warmth.

“I’d like to come with you,” he says when he realizes he has been staring for too long. She is used to his oddities, but the way she chides him gently when she catches him ‘zoning out’ reminds him too much of Dean’s fond exasperation not to be painful.

***

The worst thing in this life is not the lack of sleep; he has grown used to that. He has also grown used to the nightmares. They come in many shapes and forms. Sometimes he sees Dean’s eyes, dead and hollow, staring unseeingly at him. Sometimes he sees the burnt out wings of his brethren. They keep him in penance, remind him of all the ways he has become a monster.

The worst thing is not the sheer _humanity_ of it all, either. Having to learn his body’s habits has not been easy at the camp, but he has accepted his need to piss, to shit, to eat, and to sleep at regular intervals. He has experienced hunger, has experienced sickness more than once; his twice-remade vessel had not needed to create antibodies when he was an angel, and he suffers  the consequences. These are painful proofs of his fall, but he adapted fairly quickly.

No, the worst thing is his weakness. Once, he could flatten his vessel’s palm against a tree and feel its sap beat in recognition against his Grace, the hum of its life curling around him like a blanket. Once, he could let himself be soothed by the constant buzz of Heaven, the little whispers of the Voice flickering on and off through his being. Once, he was not confined to earth by such things as gravity. He would fly then, dance in between dimensions like something electric and bigger than life. The loss is still bathing his throat with something bitter and disgusting. He spills it, curses in all the languages known to man and some unknown, for he didn’t lose his knowledge when he lost himself. But what is knowledge when you don’t exist?

He does not know what happens in the world. He is not sure he wants to. Not sure he wants to hear how the angels are faring out there, if they are showering the wrath of Heaven on unsuspecting humans. Some days he almost wants to take the hex bag out of his pocket, walk into the middle of the road, and wait for them to strike. Some nights he wants to drink himself to sleep to forget the emptiness.

 _Oh, how the mighty have fallen_ , he thinks and chuckles bitterly.

He spits on the ground, just because he can.

***

Castiel doesn’t like the way people look at them. He knows that they look like what they are, Nora with her threadbare jeans and her multicolored shawl, himself with his several layers of clothes piled to shy away from the persistent cold. But it doesn’t mean he has to like it, when they walk down to the city center and he can feel the wary looks, the pitying glances.

Castiel doesn’t feel like he needs pity.

He _does_ feel like he is hungry, though. They have their spots. There is a little grocery shop not too far from the camp (he’s taken to calling it that, even if it's more of a squat, really.) The owner is an old man named Hammad, and he always leaves them crates of unsold fruits and vegetables. Sometimes he adds canned beans and bottles of liquid soap.

Castiel likes Hammad. Not only because of the free food, though he has found that people rarely do that – they rarely give away valuable things.

No, Castiel likes Hammad because his accent reminds him of the time he spent looking for his Father. The memories unfurl; he thinks he can hear the shouts of the Tuareg gathering their herds. The children running and laughing on his trail. For them, he was the _maẖbūl_ , the fool who defied the sand dunes and the unforgiving bite of the sun with only his wavering faith to protect him. He likes Hammad because Hammad reminds him of another life, a life where he could watch humanity and be amazed by it.

He doesn’t have time for that now. 

 _Do you ever miss the apocalypse_? Meg had asked.

Castiel understands. 

***

Castiel makes a friend.

One day, as he is pouring water on his bare torso, shivering and trying to hold back yet another coughing fit, he hears a yapping behind him. Startled, he stumbles back from the bucket and looks down.

The dog is sitting in front of him, its head tilted and its smart brown eyes rooted to Castiel’s.

“Shoo,” he grumbles with a vague gesture. “There’s nothing for you here.”

He returns to his ablutions. If he could, he would skip them entirely, but Castiel doesn’t like the feeling of being dirty. He doesn’t like to smell his own body odor, the mix of sweat and dirt that makes his throat constrict with disgust. He could warm the water on Nora’s portable stove, but he found early on that, for all his muttered imprecations, the feeling of the cold water running over his skin is rather invigorating.

Castiel dries himself quickly with a towel, trying to stop his teeth from chattering, and slips on as many clothes as he can. When he is done, the dog hasn’t moved an inch.

“What?” he asks.

The dog barks once and steps forward, nuzzling at his thigh. Castiel sighs and pets it absently. Many of his ‘neighbors’ have dogs, but he has never seen this one. He kneels on the ground and scratches between its ears. The dog squirms and rolls onto its back, pawing at Castiel’s coat. 

“Oh, you’re a lady, aren’t you?” he murmurs. The dog growls happily and licks his palm. Castiel grimaces at the wet sensation.

“Now, that’s just disgusting,” he chides. Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t have a collar and looks scraggy enough to be a stray. Her fur is coated in mud, but he can see that it is completely black, except for a white spot around her right eye. She looks young and Castiel can’t recognize a distinct breed in her elegant paws and long muzzle.

“Who’s your owner, gorgeous?” he asks, getting to his feet and looking around in the hope of spotting a familiar face. She whimpers at the loss of his hand and scampers along with him. There’s only Nora, sitting cross-legged on the ground next to Jonah. They’re sipping cheap beers, the kind that make Castiel want to throw up.

“Hey,” he says, walking toward them, the dog at his heels. “Do you know whose dog this is?”

Jonah frowns and looks down at the dog, then up at Castiel. His dark eyes have the kind of blurred intensity that Castiel now associates with former drug addicts. At first it unsettled him, but Jonah is a nice boy. A little strange, maybe, but Castiel doesn’t think he should be one to judge in that matter.

“Well, Jimmy,” Jonah says. “Looks like it adopted you.”

Castiel blinks down at the dog. She stares back adoringly, tail whacking the ground.

“Why?” he asks her.

She barks.

 

***

At night, when the cold makes them stumble back to the camp, they join the others around the fire and Castiel listens to his companions’ chatter. They talk about nothing in particular. It is just another trick to shield them from their own life.

The night everything changes comes almost six months after his fall. As he idly listens to the buzz of the conversations, he hears something that makes his blood turn to ice.

“…said he was my _angel_ and he kept asking me questions,” Jonah says, and his gaze slides over the other men to fix on Castiel. “Rich dude, too. Not like us, he was _fancy_. Then, when I couldn’t help him he gave me _thirty dollars_. A nutcase, but I pretty much earned my day.”

Castiel looks at Jonah’s face, too pale and too young, and thanks whoever listens to him that this _angel_ had enough respect for humanity not to take his life away. His mouth is suddenly dry and sandy.

“What were his questions?” he asks abruptly. A few curious looks turn their way, because Castiel mostly keeps to himself. He doesn’t really try to make friends, but he doesn’t try to make problems, either. It's why they accepted him so easily. Jonah blinks at him innocently and shrugs.

“They were lookin’ for an old friend, they said.”

Castiel frowns. “ _They_? You said it was a man.”

Jonah shakes his head. “Wasn’t alone. There were two chicks with him, but he was the one who did all the talking. Chicks looked like they were some kind of bodyguards. Scary ones, too. Wouldn’t touch that with a ten foot pole, I like my balls where they are.”

Nora glares and a few men chuckle at that, but Castiel doesn’t crack a smile.

“What did they tell you?”

Jonah’s eyes are sparkling with mirth.

“Well, they asked me if I knew of a man named Castiel. I said no. And then –”

Castiel’s blood thumps in his ears, his palms wet with perspiration. He wipes them on his jeans.

“Then?” he presses.

“Then they asked me if I’d seen a new face in the past three months.” He licks his lips. Everyone is looking at them now, but Castiel couldn’t care less. “I said yes,” Jonah says, and Castiel stops breathing. Jonah smirks. “I told them ‘bout Ruth.”

The dog barks once when Jonah speaks her name, her tail waggling happily. As the air comes back into his lungs with a hissing noise, Castiel blinks his relief a few times.

“Shit,” he breathes. How did this _angel_ find out where he was? He did not leave his hex bag since the day of his arrival in Chicago. Were they already on his trail then? Castiel might have  underestimated their faculty to adapt. But it doesn't make sense. Why would they have waited three months before starting to ask after him?

It doesn’t matter. All in all, he is well and truly fucked. He does not know how Jonah knew how to do this, this lie through omission. Hopefully, it will have slowed his pursuers down long enough to give him time to flee. He doesn’t bother trying to look unsuspicious as he slinks back into the shadows and runs back to his shack. He will let the others draw their own conclusions.

As he throws his meager possessions into his bag, he hears Ruth whimper in confusion. He must smell like acidic fear. He is ashamed of his own panic, but can’t control it. Can’t control the cold sweat trickling down the nape of his neck, the way his pulse speeds up. It is one of the downsides of humanity, the fear, but it comes with an inherent survival instinct that has helped him more than once in the past months.

“You’re leaving.”

Jonah’s voice is calm, calmer than he has ever heard it. Castiel straightens slowly and turns to meet these dark eyes that seem to hold so many secrets.

“Indeed,” he says, shrugging on the strap of his bag. It is heavier than when he arrived here. He feels the reassuring weight of the knife in his palm.

“Tell me, what do you fear so much?” Jonah is stepping forwards now, up into Castiel’s personal space. His phrasing is different, less colorful.

“What?”

“There are many terms one could use to describe you, Castiel, but coward is not one of them,” Jonah says. Castiel can only think _shit_ before his hand is shooting up of its own volition, sharp blade shining against Jonah’s pale throat. Jonah doesn’t blink.

“ _Who are you?_ ” Castiel hisses. He feels no fear now, only the sweet burst of adrenaline. Jonah smiles, sharp and sweet at the same time.

“Like I said, not a coward. So what are you fleeing?”

Castiel’s blade pierces the skin, but as soon as blood starts blossoming at the surface, the injury closes itself. He stumbles back.

“You’re an angel,” he says faintly. Ruth starts growling, her white teeth gleaming in the dark. Castiel pets her head reflexively and she falls quiet.

Jonah nods.

“You are not afraid to die, Castiel,” he says matter-of-factly. “You are afraid of something more…human.” He tilts his head and breathes deep through his nose. “Your soul is difficult to read, brother. You confuse me, though I have lived among humans for centuries.”

“I am not human,” Castiel says. He doesn’t know why it slips, but he’s thought about it for so long, lost in the depths of his self-hatred. He just _needed_ to say it. He wants to say _I’m a monster_ , and _I don’t deserve death,_ but it just chokes in the back of his throat.

“Of course you’re human, Castiel,” Jonah says softly. “You’re human and you have been for a long time. Angels don’t know how to _choose_. Angels don’t know how to _love_. You gave us dreams, Castiel. Only a human could do this.” He pauses, frowns. “Of course, your mistakes crushed most of these dreams. But, Castiel, most angels blame Metatron for what happened, not you.”

Castiel blinks, tries to quell his urge to slash open Jonah’s throat, just to make the words stop.

“Are they really looking for me?” he asks eventually, hand clenching on the soft, worn leather of his bag. Jonah nods.

“Some are. They asked me to look for you ages ago. I managed to hold them back, but I am afraid they are getting suspicious.”

 “Shit,” Castiel breathes. He has found he likes the liberation of these little, vulgar words. “Why are you helping me?” Even he can hear the desperation in his own tone. At first, he thinks Jonah will not answer, but after a beat, the man – the _angel_ , his _brother_ – sighs.

“I am only trying to do what is right. They don’t understand. They are hurt, they are angered, and they want someone to blame. But this…this could be a blessing. Maybe it is time for us angels to learn how to feel. Maybe it is time to _love_.” His eyes are huge, almost innocent in their reverence. Castiel shakes his head.

“Angels can’t love the way humans do, Jonah.” He closes his eyes for a second, tries to count his erratic heartbeats.

“Yet you fell in love.”

The answer is blunt, and Castiel stumbles back with the force of it, lips curled into a scowl.

“I did not,” he spits uselessly.  

Jonah stares at him, silent. Judging, maybe. Disappointed, certainly.

 “Dean Winchester must be mourning your absence.” He smiles, something melancholic fleeting through his eyes.

Castiel doesn’t expect the stab of sorrow he feels at that.

“They are better off without me,” he says. He has spent so much time trying to convince himself of that, but as he voices it now, it feels hollow.

“Your allies are rare, Castiel. Your friends even more. They have never given up on you. Don’t give up on them.”

It feels like a plea, and Castiel tips his head back. Snaps his eyes open when Jonah’s palm touches his chest. It _burns._ His bones feel like they're exploding with scorching flames. He hisses but does not move, for he knows what his brother is doing.

“You are now hidden from every angel in creation. Well, except archangels, but I’m afraid their reign has come to an end with Raphael’s destruction.” His sudden chuckle surprises Castiel. It is brash, grating, and holds the bitterness of those who have been hurt. “Fucker had it coming. By the way, that was one hell of a throat infection you had there. I took care of it.”

The voice is suddenly all Jonah’s, the Jonah he has known for the past months. Castiel can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips.

“Now, tell me, _Jimmy_. What will you do?”

Jonah is stepping back, now, his face transfigured by the mask Castiel once thought was the face of an ex-junkie. Castiel peers at him and tries to understand how he ever could have mistaken him for human. There is something too otherworldly in his gaze, something dark. Castiel knows if he could watch his own reflection, he would see the same. He still hasn’t fully picked on the subtle details that _make_ a human being. They are coming to him as he goes, as he imprints on the people he meets, but he doubts he will ever seem _normal_.

“I will go on my way,” Castiel answers, voice and heart heavy in his chest. “What will _you_ do?”

Jonah shrugs. “Well, I was here long before you. I like it here. These people can use my protection.”

Castiel nods. There are unspoken words, heavy between them. Castiel doubts his brother will survive this betrayal, and Jonah must know it, too. They don’t bother with goodbyes.

Castiel never was good at them, anyway.

***

He finds Nora scrubbing relentlessly at a washed-out blue t-shirt. He stands there for a while, listening to her humming. Her hair sticks out in all directions, and the surge of affection and sadness he feels is mind-numbing.

“Your life shouldn’t be like that,” he says. She doesn’t react, except for the minute tense of her shoulders. Nora laughs. It sounds hollow and when she stands up and turns, her eyes are red-rimmed. Castiel frowns and takes a step toward her.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, hesitantly replacing a dark curl behind her ear. Nora doesn’t care about all those notions of _personal space_ and _intimacy_. It's one of the reasons why Castiel likes her so much. He doesn’t feel like he needs to pretend, and the thought of losing that makes his chest clench sharply.

“You’re leaving,” Nora says matter-of-factly, and Castiel can only nod, inhaling through the entwined smells of cheap soap and smoke.

“I am. My – family… I can’t let myself be found.”

This time, Nora’s laugh is warmer, curls around her lips and bubbles in the air between them.

“What are they, the _mob_ or something?”

Castiel chuckles and tries to ignore how close it is to the truth.

“Or something, yes.”

 The following silence is not tense, not exactly. It echoes with the mutual realization that they will never see each other again.

“Well,” Nora says.

Castiel nods. There isn’t much more to say, and when Nora wraps her arms around him and buries her nose in his neck, he basks in her warmth and her proximity. He kisses her forehead. Without a word, he steps back, whistles to call Ruth.

He doesn’t look back as he walks down the lane and away from the camp. He leaves everything behind.

 _I will go on my way,_ he thinks. _That’s what I always do_.

 

# Part Three

 

This time, Castiel hitchhikes on purpose. It doesn’t take immediately. It is late, after all, and Castiel can’t blame the drivers when they ignore him. After all, who would want to share space with a shady hobo and his dog for a long drive?

It takes him two days to reach Des Moines. Castiel waits four hours before a tired-looking woman with pink hair and a lot of piercings agrees to take him to Davenport. She smiles at Ruth and tells Castiel to let her jump in the backseat. She doesn’t talk much, but offers him a coffee when they stop at a gas station. It reminds him of Henry. Castiel lost his number a long time ago. Even if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have contacted him again. His best chance is being unpredictable, so he thumbs at random, hopping in whatever cars will have him and Ruth.

In Davenport, he sleeps on a bench, but his night is disturbed when a policeman shakes him awake, shoos him with a stern frown and tells him he’s lucky not to get arrested for vagrancy. Castiel apologizes and scurries away, Ruth trailing behind him.

The second person to take him is a young man in a dirty white van. He is going to Des Moines, and climbs out of the van wordlessly to open the back door for Ruth. He is mostly silent, except for the occasional question. The music fills the silence between them, a Classic Rock station. _Dean_. Castiel closes his eyes to quell his need to see his friend. He realizes with horror that he doesn’t even know how Sam is faring. He could be dead, for all Castiel knows. He swallows and looks through the window. Surely, Jonah would have told him if something had happened. Surely, if Sam were dead, Dean would have other concerns than his absence. The thought leaves him slightly breathless. He has tried for so long _not_ to think about them.

The last time Dean saw Castiel, he was still an angel, and he was preparing himself to die in an act of righteousness he thought would redeem him. He remembers how Dean looked at him then. _So, that’s it_? And Castiel had wanted to smooth away the pain from his eyes, to tell him _I’ll stay with you_ and _Sam will be alright_.

But he couldn’t. And isn’t that just the story of his life? 

When the man pulls over in Des Moines, Castiel thanks him quietly and gathers his bag and his dog. He tries really hard not to panic at the sight of yet another city he knows nothing of. He is tired and his ribs ache where Jonah has engraved the sigils. He craves a warm bed and a shower, though he knows he can have neither.

Instead, he wanders for the rest of the afternoon, munching on his last apple. When the streetlamps start glowing, he finds himself a barely lit alleyway and curls up, Ruth a warm and reassuring presence by his side.

***

Castiel is awakened by Ruth’s low growl. In a blink, he is standing, hand going for his knife automatically.

In the dark, he can only make out a bulky figure staggering toward him. He doesn’t like it one bit.

“Who are you?” he asks, and the answering laugh sounds _mad_. It resonates within Castiel and all his alarms go off.

“Just wanna talk.” 

But the man doesn’t sound like he just wants to _talk_ , and Castiel steels himself. He will not attack, but he will be ready if the man does.

“I don’t want any trouble,” he says calmly. “Leave me alone.”

His left hand finds the rope around Ruth’s neck, a poor excuse for a collar, while the other hand tightens around the knife. Ruth doesn’t stop growling. _Animal instinct_. The man is closer now, close enough for Castiel to see that his pupils are dilated. He is high and, more importantly, he carries a knife too. Castiel has seen enough people act crazily under the influence of opiates or alcohol.

“What do you want?” he asks. Slowly, he starts to move forward, shoulders hunched. He is fairly sure he knows what the man is looking for. Money. Drugs, maybe. He can see the symptoms of withdrawal in the way his skin shines with sweat and his hands shake.

He is gone, Castiel realizes. If he were still an angel, he is certain he could see the haze of addiction in the man’s soul, the mud tainting it. He lets go of Ruth’s collar the moment the man jerks forward, avoids the blow easily. In two movements he is behind the man. Another, and he is gripping his wrist, wringing it until the man lets go of his knife with a pained groan.

“Too easy,” Castiel mutters as he grips the man’s nape with his other hand, forcing him to bend down while twisting his arm behind his back. The man cries out in pain, but Castiel doesn’t let go. Instead, he pushes violently on his neck until his head bangs into the wall with a muffled _thump_. Not hard enough to kill. Castiel does not wish to kill, merely incapacitate. The man slumps onto the ground when Castiel lets go of him. Ruth barks.

“Come,” Castiel tells her. “It isn’t safe here.”

***

Castiel uses some of his last dollars, carefully kept aside in case of emergency, to order a tepid coffee and use the restroom of a coffee shop. It's early enough for the place to be almost empty, and he cleans his teeth, his face, and his armpits as quickly as he can. He feels slightly more human after that, but his reflection in the mirror makes him wince all the same. He looks like he did when he returned from Purgatory – worn out and disheveled.

“Now what?” he asks his reflection, because he cannot go on like this. He needs a goal, something to work towards. He needs to, as Dean would say, _pull his thumb out of his ass_ and start working on fixing his mistakes once more.

Except he can’t do this alone. He doesn't have the means, and he can’t do anything if he is too busy trying to stay under the radar. 

“Shit,” he breathes, rubbing his forehead tiredly.

He tries to shut down the little voice in his mind that whispers _time to go home, Cas_.

***

 

As Castiel sees it, he has two possible solutions.

He can call the Winchesters now and ask them to come and get him. This solution is by far the more practical. It is also the more uncomfortable. He can almost _see_ Dean’s betrayed expression and his accusations that Castiel will not be able to counter. He can almost _feel_ the tense silence in the car, heavy with all the resentments they've hoarded as the years went by. He closes his eyes for a second and wonders if his relationship with Dean has passed the point of no return. He wonders if there is something worth saving between them, after all.

The other solution is hitchhiking. He's starting to get fairly acquainted with the act, but there is no denying that he doesn’t know how long it would take him to reach Lebanon, Kansas. There is also the blur in the logistics. The last time he went to the Bunker, he was still an angel, and sad as it may be, he has no idea if he would be able to find it now.

 _Suck it up, Cas_ , he thinks, and chuckles at the irony when the chiding voice sounds like Dean’s.

Fumbling in his pocket for his last coins, he goes to find the coffee shop’s telephone. His hands shake with barely concealed trepidation as he dials Dean’s number.

When the rough, familiar voice answers the call, Castiel has to take a deep breath to prevent himself from hanging up right here and then.

“ _Hello?_ ”Dean repeats, sounding irritated.

There is a crack on the Formica table. Castiel follows it with his finger and licks his lips.

“Hello, Dean.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

# Part Four

 

Time, Castiel muses, is a frustrating notion. It had never occurred to him before, being an angel and thus unbound by all things related to time and space, that he would one day find himself _restless_.  He is unwilling to walk, unwilling to do anything other than uselessly try to will   _time_ , an unbendable conceit by human definitions, to pass quicker.

At his side, Ruth seems to sense his impatience and huffs.

“Stop laughing at me,” he says, frowning. A young woman looks at him warily and scurries away. Her hips sway with each step, and Castiel catches himself _watching_. He scowls and refocuses his gaze on the small bookstore on the other side of the sidewalk. Through the front window, the owner keeps shooting him threatening glances. It is one of the reasons Castiel is still here. He didn’t like the way the owner looked at him when he'd settled on the bench -- half disgusted and half suspicious. He finds amusement in the man’s discomfort. According to Nora, he is a _pain in the ass_ like that.

He tries not to think of the way Dean’s voice had shaken when he'd understood who was calling. _Where are you_? He had asked. Castiel had stuttered through his answer, spilt the address of the coffee shop. _I’ll be there in six hours, tops_. Castiel had not had time to say anything in reply. The curt click had informed him that Dean had hung up. Castiel had sighed and left the shop to avoid the waitress’ near-constant surveillance.

It has been five hours and thirty-seven minutes, according to the digital clock adorning the adjacent drugstore’s sign. Castiel is hungry and he…fears. No, fear is not the right word. Castiel is _apprehensive_ of the way Dean will react to seeing him. He half expects to be punched in the face, and he knows he would deserve it and so much more.

During these five hours and thirty-seven minutes, he has almost changed his mind four times, ready to take off and disappear before his friend’s arrival.

Imagining the betrayed look on Dean’s face has been enough to glue him to the bench.

The street he has chosen is not very frequented. There are a few stores here and there, but most of the buildings are habitations. This is why Castiel recognizes the familiar rumble before the Impala even appears at the street corner. He stands slowly, hands clenching around the lapel of his coat. Ruth whimpers, but he pays her no attention, too busy looking at the sleek black car. In his chest, his heart feels ready to explode.

The Impala pulls over and when Dean climbs out, he is the same as Castiel has always known him to be. He looks around, jaw clenched and eyes wide, and Castiel can recognize the signs of the nervousness he is feeling.

And then time seems suddenly to retract in on itself. Castiel can’t hear anything but the wind hissing, slapping his face and burning his eyes. Or maybe is it the tears he hasn’t allowed himself to shed since his first night in Chicago. He forces himself to blink against them as Dean’s gaze land on him and he stops dead in his tracks, eyes widening even more.

They stay here for a second, or maybe an hour, and the distance between them feels ever more impassable. But Dean… Dean just shakes his head and crosses the space between them in three steps. When his hand closes around Castiel’s shoulder, the breath he heaves is shuddering and desperate. Castiel wants to grip his hand, to embrace Dean and stay here forever.

“Cas,” Dean says. His voice is rough and it feels like the first breath after a coma, like the first sip of clear water in a desert. Castiel can only nod, overwhelmed by something _new_ , something choking and immense. Something he can’t name. 

“Cas,” Dean repeats, and it sounds like a plea. His hand squeezes Castiel’s arm, as if trying to hold him back. To prevent him from disappearing.

“I’m real,” Castiel rasps. He doesn’t know why he says that instead of _Dean_ , instead of _I’m sorry_ , instead of _I’m here_ , but it seems like it was the right thing to say. Dean’s expression is open, almost childlike. There is a trembling in his lower lip that Castiel pretends not to see. The hand leaves his arm, and Castiel forces back his disappointment at the sudden feeling of _emptiness_. Dean takes a step back, schooling his features into something less raw. His eyes sweep over him, and Castiel suddenly feels self-conscious when they pause on the thin scar slashing the side of his neck and disappearing under the collar of his coat, courtesy of a drunken brawl on his third night as a human.

“Cas, man,” Dean says, “What happened to you?”

Castiel tips his head and smiles a little. There is no good answer for this, no magic words. He shrugs and a rough chuckle tears his throat apart like a blade. It holds no bitterness, though, just the weight of the months they have spent apart.

“Life.”

***

Dean doesn’t even twitch when he sees Ruth. He just looks at her for a while, face vacant, blinking slowly in the pale winter sun. Castiel hovers around them anxiously, waiting for Dean to lash out, to yell at him or flat-out refuse to take her in.

Except…it doesn’t happen. Castiel doesn’t know if Ruth’s dark eyes have managed to charm him or if he simply does it for the sake of diplomacy – the latter is more likely – but Dean opens the back door without a word. He looks somewhat reluctant as he does so, shoulders tense and mouth set in a thin line.

“What’s its name?” he asks, staring at Castiel over the roof of the Impala. Castiel glances at Ruth, who climbed in without making a fuss. She seems to appreciate being in a car, and he envies her that. It still seems like a peculiar means of transportation to him, no matter how human he has become.

“Her name is Ruth,” he says softly. Dean gestures for Castiel to get in. He complies, sliding into the shotgun seat. His nose picks up the familiar smells, _LeatherDeanSamGasoline_.

“Isn’t that a little…blasphemous?” Dean asks.

The engine starts with a rumble, drowning out Castiel’s short burst of laughter.

“I think one blasphemy won’t make much difference now. Besides, I knew Ruth. She would probably find it hilarious.”

Dean glances at him, a subtle frown wrinkling his brow, but doesn’t say anything. When he returns his gaze to the road, there is something anguished in the way his fingers are clenching around the steering wheel. Castiel keeps quiet and tries to analyze the turmoil of emotions roiling within his chest like an angry snake. He still has difficulties naming them, too entwined with his newly human condition to make much sense. He _felt_ , before, of course, but human souls tinge everything with a vividness no angel could ever imitate. Sometimes, it can be their downfall. Castiel is the living proof of that.

Mostly, though, he feels like there is something very wrong with this scene. Dean isn’t acting like Castiel thought he would. Hasn’t yelled out his wounds, hasn’t spat harsh words. When Castiel left him to initiate the third trial, there was a world of hurt between them, heavy with unspoken resentments and regrets. It is still here, Castiel thinks. It is still eroding their silence with acid claws, and Dean seems to be hurting himself with the sheer effort of _ignoring it_.

Castiel leans further into his seat and closes his eyes. The minutes go by, unacknowledged. There is no music to take his mind off the tension, only Ruth’s soft pants.

“How is Sam?” he asks when he can’t take it anymore. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to feel the atmosphere thicken and cool. He breathes in, deep, to chase away the panic.

“Better,” Dean says, voice carefully blank. Castiel thinks he will leave it at that and expects the silence to settle back. After a minute, though, Dean clears his throat.

“It’s still a little rough. I mean, it was – it was really a close call. I had to take him to the hospital. They just – they didn’t know how to help him, told me he was gonna die.” His voice chokes off and Castiel opens his eyes, glances sideways. Dean blinks a few times, snorts. “And then I got sick of sitting with my thumb up my ass while he – I just couldn’t. Took ‘im home while he could still eat and piss by himself, y’know. Got Kevin and Charlie to help me look through every godforsaken white magic book and all the healing stuff we could find at the Bunker.”

He stops then, and Castiel knows that edge to his voice. It is Dean on the verge of a breakdown, and he doesn’t know what he can do. He knows what he _wants_ to do. He wants to comfort, wants to reach out and squeeze Dean’s shoulder.

He just doesn’t know if he’s allowed to.

So he waits patiently while Dean takes a few deep, hissing breaths. Twists his hands together to stop himself from touching.

“We found stuff,” Dean says after a while. His voice is rougher. Castiel doesn’t look up to see if his cheeks are wet. They probably aren’t. “Spells. Didn’t know if it would work but we –didn’t have much of a choice, y’know. It – did. Sort of. Sam’s not in great shape, though. Looks like it just postponed the inevitable. Buy us more time to find out how to stop this _resonating_ bullshit.”

There is something naked in the flood of words Dean is throwing at Castiel. It looks more like he is talking to himself, really. Castiel wonders, not for the first time, how this man can endure the constant pain weighing on his shoulders. And something twists uncomfortably at the idea that _he_ was more than once the one to cause this pain.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. Dean doesn’t answer, lets the words curl around them with their imperfection, their inaccuracy. No words could express how Castiel feels. He feels like he has failed Dean and Sam, in the same way he has failed his siblings. He feels like a complete, utter _asshole_. He has been hiding for so long, trying to convince himself it was the right thing to do. Now, Dean’s confessions have the effect of a knife twisting in his gut. He has spent almost six months so preoccupied with his guilt-ridden, apologetic, miserable little _self_ that he forgot along the way there were people he could help.

“Dean –” he starts, but whatever he was going to say is cut off when Dean bangs his fist on the wheel. Castiel falls silent, watching him warily. Behind them, Ruth whines. Castiel had almost forgotten she was here.

The shadows under Dean’s eyes are sharpened by the crude light, and the glance he throws his way is deeply desperate.

“Can we – can we _not_ , please?” he says softly. “I just want to – can we just pretend everything is okay?”

It is Dean in a nutshell, admitted with an honesty that baffles Castiel.

“Dean, you know it doesn’t work like that,” he sighs.

One second ticks by.

“Yeah, buddy, I know that. I just – can’t. Not now.”

Castiel closes his eyes again.

“Yes,” he says, guiltily relieved not to have to open this particular can of worms. “Alright. I’m hungry and I need to piss. Can we stop soon?”

It startles a laugh out of Dean. The sound is almost genuine, if a little surprised.

“Smooth, Cas. Smooth.”

***

They stop at a diner on a rest area. Castiel lets Ruth climb out of the car and knots her rope around a post.

“Don’t try to escape,” he warns her. She looks unimpressed, but nips playfully at his fingers when he goes to pet her muzzle. She will need a bath at the bunker, he thinks idly. Maybe he will be able to coax Sam into helping him.

“So you’re one of those guys, huh?”

Startled, Castiel whips his head around to find Dean observing him quizzically. He is almost smiling. Castiel tilts his head, and the almost-smile turns into a smirk.

“What?” he asks. He thinks he is being mocked, but can’t think of a reason why. Dean shrugs, unbothered by his gruff tone.

“One of those guys who talk to their pets,” he clarifies.

Castiel straightens, glaring at Dean’s retreating back. He follows him in the diner.

“Ruth is not my _pet_. She’s my friend.”

_She helped me not go crazy_ , he doesn’t say. _She was here to protect me and I was here to protect her_. Dean seems to hear it all the same. His eyes are a little softer under the neon lights when he takes him by the elbow and drags him towards a booth. Castiel notices that he chooses one placed so that Castiel can keep a close eye on Ruth through the window.

The diner is almost empty at this hour, but a little sign over the counter say that they serve 24/7. Castiel is glad. He doesn’t think he would have liked a crowded place after all this time spent trying to avoid them like the plague.

The plastic seats squeak under them as they sit. Dean seems uncomfortable, looking everywhere but in Castiel’s direction. Castiel frowns, but doesn’t ask, rubbing his numb hands against each other to warm them. A bored-looking waiter shuffles over to their table and takes their orders. Castiel’s stomach roars at the simple idea of a piece of meat. While he had the chance to be able to share Nora’s portable stove, their meals mostly consisted of rice or canned beans -- things that kept the hunger away for a long time, and settled in their stomachs like cement.

He bites into his cheeseburger with an eagerness that has Dean’s eyebrows shooting up. The meat is slightly overcooked, but Castiel doesn’t care. He hums earnestly and sips from his glass of water before taking another bite, more carefully.

“Huh,” Dean says before shrugging and shoving a fry in his mouth. The silence is barely disturbed by the distant echo of a television, but Castiel is too absorbed in his food to find it uncomfortable. There is something almost soothing in the quiet warmth of the diner, and by the time Castiel finishes his plate, he feels himself overcome with a torpor he has never experienced.

“All done?” Dean asks, snapping him out of his daze. Castiel nods lazily.

“I have to feed Ruth,” he says, as an afterthought. “She hasn’t eaten this morning.”

“Suit yourself,” Dean says through a yawn. “I’ll pay, then.”

Castiel rummages in his bag for Ruth’s cheap kibbles and the worn plastic dish he found in a dumpster a month before. Ruth’s tail waggles when she sees him and he smiles fondly. Nothing fills him with more affection than her obvious happiness when she sees him. No one has ever shown as complete and blind a love for him, and he relishes it guiltily.

He is sitting cross-legged on the ground, watching her eat, when Dean comes out of the diner. And he just – stands there. He is looking at Castiel, but it seems like his gaze goes right _through_ him, lost in the world of his own mind. He has the same forlorn expression that Castiel saw too many times, one that speaks of huge voids. And he looks so... lonely, so old suddenly, that Castiel feels his too-human heart stutter in pain at the sight. He wants to wipe it off Dean’s face, this thread of a broken soul. But he is just a man sitting on the concrete of a rest area. He can only hear the rumble of the cars, not the whispers of Dean’s remorse. So he stays silent and chokes back his guilt and his useless apologies. Averts his gaze and empties a bottle of water in Ruth’s now empty bowl.

“All set?” Dean asks once Ruth has drunk to her heart’s content. Castiel nods, shaking the bowl to get rid of the last drops of water before shoving it in his bag. His mouth is set in a thin, grim line as he makes a beeline for the car and coaxes Ruth into climbing in. She is a little reluctant, probably starting to be fed up with the trip, but a sharp whistle calls her to order. Dean shoots him a look that’s almost impressed as he turns the engine on.

“Well played,” he says, lips quirking up.

“I once was the leader of a garrison of angels,” Castiel deadpans. “I can manage a dog.”

The tiny smile disappears as fast as it came, and Castiel curses himself inwardly, left hand clenching on his lap as the other wipes at the condensation on the window. Dean is driving fast and the landscape passes before Castiel’s eyes, sad and heavy with the misty rain that has started to drizzle on the windshield.

“I guess,” Dean breathes eventually.

They don’t talk much after that.

***

# Part 5

 

Dean shakes Castiel awake around five in the afternoon. He blinks owlishly at the trees bordering the road and straightens in his seat with the split-second of slight confusion that always blurs his mind when he wakes.

“What,” he grunts.

“We’re ho – we’re here,” Dean says. Castiel frowns. He doesn’t recognize anything. Apparently, his decision to forgo hitchhiking was a good one.

“Ah,” he says. Dean huffs and Ruth mirrors him. When Castiel glances in the rearview mirror, she is watching through the window, ears perking up.

“We’re almost here,” Castiel informs her. “Don’t pee on the upholstery.”

Dean blanches and throws a look over his shoulder.

“ _What_?” he says, voice higher than usual. Castiel has to bite back a smile. “I swear to god, Cas, if she pisses in my car, I’ll skin her alive and make a coat out of her fur.”

Castiel extends his arm and lets Ruth sniff at his hand.

“Don’t listen to him,” he croons. “He won’t do anything to you.”

“Uh, yeah?” Dean says, tone challenging. “Who’s gonna stop me, Cas? _You_?”

Castiel shoots him a _look_. “I can still fight, Dean.”

Dean pulls over and turns off the engine. His hands don’t leave the wheel as he cranes his neck to stare at Castiel.

“I can, too,” he says, softer. Castiel arches a brow.

“I have millennia of training over you,” he bites back. Dean tips his head, conceding the point. His eyes dance over Castiel’s face. A second goes by, then two. The stillness is almost unbearable for Castiel, but he doesn’t try to break it. It is Dean who clears his throat after a moment and springs out of the car, muttering something about being hungry, _dammit_.

Alone in the car, Castiel fits the nape of his neck on the headrest and sighs.

“You comin’?” Dean shouts from the outside.

Ruth whines her impatience and Castiel nods.

“Yes,” he says.

***

Much like in his memories, the bunker is all space and echoes of footsteps. Without being cold, it reminds Castiel of an ancient library or a museum. Four steps ahead of him, Dean acts with a casualness that speaks familiarity, throwing his jacket on a chair and stretching with a groan. Castiel feels stiff after the day of forced immobility.

“Sam?” Dean calls out. “Kevin?”

When no one answers, Castiel looks around cautiously, hand wrapping around his knife in his pocket. He is half-expecting to find blood or something equally worrying when a distant voice, undoubtedly Sam’s, yells, “8A!”

Dean shakes his head, grumbling. As he follows him through several hallways, Castiel can’t help being curious. This place is without a doubt the most valuable treasure of knowledge he has ever encountered. It holds centuries of dusty books and long-lost artifacts. Dean walks with confidence, his hand trailing absently along the wall. The further they sink in the depths of the bunker, the darker it gets, dimly lit by what Castiel would think were kerosene lamps if not for the fact that the bunker is liberally supplied with electricity.

“I hope you are being careful, Dean,” he says somberly. In the past months, he has had the occasion to experience what the humans call ‘sixth sense’ and what he simply writes off as pure animal instinct. The bunker seems to vibrate with power. Flattening a hand against the wall, he thinks he can feels tiny rivulets of electricity brushing against his skin. “There must be dangerous artifacts in this place.”

Dean snorts. “Oh, trust me, I know that.” He has stopped walking. When Castiel glances around, he sees a door adorned with an 8A sign, painted in flourished red lines. “Kevin touched a necklace without his protective gloves and his whole hand got covered in weird blisters. It smelled like shit. Took us two days to reverse the curse.” 

Castiel sighs and tips his head in the direction of the door. His restlessness has been growing ever since they passed the front door. He doesn’t know how Sam will react to his presence. He is indifferent to the prophet, never having had the occasion to feel something other than annoyance toward his bratty personality – then again, Kevin is, according to human standards, quite young.

Sam, however, has always been something of a mystery to him. The first time he met him, Castiel had barely been able to see past the abomination of his sulfuric blood. Sam was tainted by an unfortunate plague, his soul rotting with the mark of his newfound powers. As time went by, though, he has found in Sam a genuine kindness and a righteousness that equals his brother’s.

Humanity comes in shades of gray, a fact Castiel has learnt the hard way.

Dean opens the door and Castiel takes a deep breath before following him inside. The room is marginally lighter than the hallway. It is also far bigger than Castiel expected. Wooden boxes are aligned on the numerous shelves and a strong smell of burnt-out dust almost chokes him. He clears his throat.

“Dean?” Sam says from behind a shelf. His head appears, hair tied into a loose ponytail. His eyes are a little puffy and his skin holds the pale complexion given by sickness, but he otherwise looks healthier than the last time Castiel saw him.

“Cas,” Sam says. The voice is warm, but his gaze wary as he approaches.

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel manages, straightening under the careful look. “I’m glad to see you well.”

Sam nods and extends a hand, movements slow and hesitant. Castiel remembers the last time he found himself in this situation, all those years ago. Sam was young and starry-eyed, then, and Castiel had taken his hand and felt the darkness battling the kind soul.

Now, as he shakes the offered hand, he senses nothing other than what his brain is telling him. The skin is warm and dry under his palm. Castiel tries a smile.

“Yeah, Cas,” Sam breathes, casting a worried look in Dean’s direction, then back to Castiel. “I’m glad you’re alive, too.”

The choice of wording makes Castiel wince, and the silence that follows is tense. Castiel steps back, unsure of what to say.

‘I’mma…prepare your room, Cas,” Dean says behind him before fleeing.

_Your_ room. Castiel has never heard these words, and is surprised to find they fill him with something warm and content. He nods and listens to Dean’s feet hit the creaky hardwood floor heavily before the door closes and Castiel is alone with Sam.  He is being watched carefully, and tries to ignore it, turning to examine one of the boxes. There are numbers scribbled on a label, but they don’t mean anything to him.

“I should punch you in the face,” Sam says suddenly, voice hard. Castiel stills. Straightens even more as he gives a curt nod.

“Yes,” he says.

“Look at me,” Sam barks, and the strain in his voice makes Castiel comply without a second thought. Sam’s face is stony, but his eyes shine with rage. Castiel wants to run, to avoid this confrontation, but he knows it would be acting like a coward. He is just so... tired.

“Do you have any idea –” Sam starts. He pauses, shakes his head. “Do you have any idea what it was, to see Dean pray to you _every fucking night_ , for four months, Cas? Do you have any idea what he went through? It was Purgatory all over again.” Sam is stepping forward. His voice is level, but there is an undercurrent of barely controlled anger. “I told him you were _dead_ , Cas. It took him more than _four_ months to stop looking for you. And you come back, six months later, like it’s nothing?” He laughs hollowly, eyes wild. Shakes his head. “I’m sick of your shit, Cas.”

Castiel blinks against the sting behind his eyelids.

“Sam,” he says roughly. “I did it to protect you. Both of you. My presence here would have been detected eventually. The hex bags could only do so much. I am being _hunted._ ”

 Sam pauses at that, pinching the bridge of his nose and breathing out slowly.

“What made you change your mind, then?”

Castiel’s hand finds his chest, trying pointlessly to feel the sigils engraved in his very bones. “I found a more…permanent solution.”

Almost all the anger seems to drain from Sam’s body, and he suddenly looks very tired.

“Next time, Cas, let  Dean decide what’s good for him.”

Castiel nods, averting his gaze, but Sam is not done. “And don’t think that you’re exempted from telling me what you were up to.”

“Yes,” Castiel sighs. The conversation seems to be over for the moment. It leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, a tingle of regret and guilt. He listens to Sam’s footsteps fade as he leaves the room. Stays here, in the dark, head bent, eyes closed. Listens to the silence and wonders, not for the first time, why he who was such a strategist in Heaven can’t seem to make the right decisions here on Earth.

Then, he pads over to the door and retreats quietly, following the low sound of Sam’s voice. When he gets back to the library, Sam is kneeling in front of Ruth, his eyes wide and delighted. When he looks up at Castiel, he grins.

“Yours?”

Castiel nods. “Yes,” he says quietly. “Her name is Ruth.”

The pure joy on Sam’s face and Ruth’s contented pants seem to light up the room. Dean comes in and stops next to him, rubbing his forehead, eyes tired. He looks at them, then sniffs the air with a disgusted look.

“Cas, no offense but – you might wanna take a shower.”

Castiel glares for the sake of it, but doesn’t bother arguing. At this point, he feels like nothing could make him happier.

***

 

Castiel has never been naked with such abandon. As his clothes pool over his feet, wrinkled, smelly rags he can’t wait to throw away, the sensation of the warm air hitting his skin seems like the best thing in the world. There is something liberating in the feel of his bare feet on the cool floor, something heady in the way the water splashes on the tiles when he turns it on and steps underneath. He almost groans out loud when the hot water slides over him, head thrown back and eyes closed in bliss. He stays still for too long, presses his palms against his eyelids until he sees billions of stars dance in the dark. And then, when he is starting to feel cleaner, purer somehow, he squeezes a blob of soap into his palm and _scrubs_ until his skin feels raw and reddened from the friction. The pressure that has been building up in his chest seems ready to burst and he screws his eyes shut, breathing deeply to try and lessen it. It works, to an extent, and when he steps out of the shower, he feels more grounded.

Dean has placed a shiny new razor next to the sink. There is also shaving foam and something called aftershave. Castiel has never used the latter, but the name is enough to clue him as to its use. The man that stares at him when he looks up in the mirror looks _old_ , older than his vessel – body – is and he sighs, rubbing the scruff on his cheeks with disgust. He doesn’t like the way it just _keeps growing_. At the camp, he could only shave with those ridiculous disposable orange razors, and did it once a week to spare them. They were not sharp enough and it used to frustrate Castiel to no end. Now, though, nothing could please him more than getting rid of this inconvenient, scratchy beard.

He has to be careful to avoid cutting himself, but after a while, the movements come easier. He rinses away the remnants of the shaving cream, pours some aftershave into his palm and quickly rubs it on his cheeks before it seeps between his fingers. He hisses at the bite of alcohol on his oversensitive skin, blinking away the reflexive tears, but after a minute it calms down and he can look at himself with renewed interest. The shadows around his eyes are dark, almost purplish, and his skin is pale with fatigue. He looks sad, somehow. Like the ghost of what he used to be.

But Castiel doesn’t feel sad. He feels determined. He will make things better if it’s the last thing he does.

And, he muses, putting on the boxers, the sweatpants and the t-shirt Dean prepared him, there is a huge chance it _will_ be the last thing he does.

It should probably scare him that he doesn’t really care.

***

Ruth takes to the bunker as she’s taken to everything she has been through since Castiel has met her. She positively _adores_ Sam, who can’t seem to stop cooing at her. He refuses to let Castiel take her for a walk, arguing that he needs to rest and that he will be happy to do it in his stead. Castiel accepts gratefully, pulling the “leash” out of his bag. Sam frowns at it, but doesn’t comment. He climbs the stairs, heeled by a yapping Ruth. Dean watches him go with a crease between his eyebrows. He looks like he doesn’t know whether or not to shout at him to be careful. Eventually, he shrugs and turns his eyes back to the book he is thumbing through. Castiel wanders in the common rooms, too tired to even think about starting his research. There is a warm feeling to the place, something he can’t quite name. There is Dean and Sam at every corner, from John Winchester’s journal on the kitchen table to the three unwashed plates in the sink. He realizes suddenly that it is the first time he has ever seen them so _settled_. Robert Singer’s house, though it was a haven for the brothers in times of crisis, never held such significance for them. As he closes his eyes and breathes in the quiet peace of the kitchen, he can’t help the slight twinge of longing that surges in his chest. There is no home for him anymore. There is no place in the world where he belongs.

It should not hurt him, but it does.

“Hi.”

He opens his eyes, startled to find the Prophet looking at him from the doorway. There is something wary about him as he eyes Castiel up and down, eyebrows raised.

“Hello,” Castiel breathes. “I didn’t hear you coming in.”

The Prophet laughs a little shakily, and his eyes widen when Castiel steps forward. Castiel pauses when he realizes that what he thought was mere suspicion is, in fact, fear. He frowns.

“I will not harm you, Prophet.”

If possible, Kevin’s eyes widen even more and he shakes his head.

“Yeah, well, sorry for being nervous. You didn’t really give out that peaceful vibe last time I saw you,” he says, and Castiel suddenly remembers that their last interactions had been far from friendly. He holds back a grimace.

“Ah,” he says. And then stops, unable to find the right words. “I’m sorry, Prophet. It will not happen again,” is what he settles for. There is silence for a second, so tense even Castiel shifts uncomfortably.

“Kevin.”

Castiel blinks down at the young face.

“That is your name,” he says slowly. “I know it.”

“Yeah, well, I’d appreciate if you used it. ‘Prophet’ had a nice ring to it before it got me and my mom kidnapped and almost killed.”

Understanding dawns on Castiel and he fidgets with a loose thread on Dean’s t-shirt. He should have known. Apparently, living as a human for six months hasn’t taught him enough about their complicated psychology.

“I understand,” he says. “You don’t wish to be reminded of your burden.”

The Prophet – Kevin – somehow manages to look both nervous and relieved.

“Yeah,” he says. “Right.”

Castiel notices that his voice has lost some of its boyish ring. Despite his obvious discomfort, his steps are confident and his hands steady as he crosses the kitchen to fill a glass of water. He has grown into his skin, as Castiel knows young people do, and the result is strikingly mature, even if he still buzzes with the same caffeinated energy as before. Maybe it should sadden Castiel, to see how fast his new life has wiped away the child that was in him, but it is nothing he hasn’t seen before, in Chicago and before. A distant echo of Joanna Harvelle’s laughter fleets through his mind and he pushes it down, _down_ , buries it along with the memories of all the beings – human, angel, and demon alike – he has not been able to save. He has enough guilt to bear for now.

Kevin is sitting at the table, spreading peanut butter on a slice of bread. Castiel observes him from the corner of his eye, thoughtful.

“Kevin,” he eventually says, voice slicing the silence, too loud. “Do you still have the Angel Tablet?”

Kevin looks up and arches an eyebrow at him.

“’Course,” he mumbles around a mouthful of his sandwich. “M’workin on the Demon Tablet, though.”

Relief floods Castiel. He had half expected Sam and Dean to have hidden the tablets away from the bunker. Now that he thinks about it, that would have been a strategic mistake, given their past occurrences of losing one tablet or the other to the hands of demons and angels both.  

“Would you allow me to read your translations?”

Kevin frowns up at him. Castiel can see the confusion clearing from his face.

“Yeah, no problem,” Kevin says. He doesn’t ask any questions. Castiel thanks him and leaves the room, bare feet slapping against the cold floor. In the library, Dean has propped his feet up on the table. He is reading, and Castiel takes a moment to watch the small wrinkle between his eyebrows, the way he sometimes mouths one word or another. He looks almost relaxed. Were Castiel prone to daydreams, he could almost convince himself that this is another Dean, one that lives happy somewhere, without the constant fear hanging over his head like a messed-up Sword of Damocles. He could be a firefighter or a teacher, could live a quiet life next to his brother. He could kiss someone goodnight before going to bed, could read and cook and laugh freely. 

But that world doesn’t exist, and Castiel finds imagination tiresome, frustrating in its impossibility. When Dean looks up, the shadows are back on his face, tiny ghosts curling over his features.

“What?” he says, blinking up at Castiel. Castiel shakes his head slowly and sits on a chair. He presses his palm against the table, as if to give his words leverage.

“We need to talk.”

Dean’s fingers clench around his book, a knee-jerk reflex born of years spent fleeing those particular words. Castiel had thought this habit tamed, but it would seem that Dean’s hurt runs even deeper than he had thought.

 “Breakin’ up with me already, Cas?” he says with a chuckle, though Castiel can see the quiet panic fleeting through his eyes.

“Quit trying to deflect,” he sighs.

It seems like it was the wrong thing to say. In the silence that follows, Dean’s eyes widen and charge with something like electricity, ready to burst at the first spark.

Suddenly, Dean laughs, but it doesn’t sound warm or happy. He leans against the back of his chair and shakes his head. Castiel averts his gaze, swallowing against his sudden nausea.

“Don’t deflect?” Dean says, and Castiel’s knuckles turn white as they twist over the smooth wood of the table. “ _Don’t deflect?_ That’s a bit rich comin’ from you, Cas. You’ve done nothing but deflect ever since you got out of Purgatory.” Dean’s chair falls on the floor with a resounding bang. His footsteps are heavy, and between one heartbeat and the other he is standing at his side. Castiel doesn’t look up, heart pounding, staring unseeingly at his hands. Dean’s words slice huge, invisible gashes into his chest, laced with truth and bitterness.

“You _didn’t come back_ , Cas,” Dean bites out. “I thought you were _dead_ , all this time without even a phone call, without a text, nothing. You don’t get to tell me we should _talk_.” His voice goes raspy on the last words, and suddenly, it sounds tired, defeated, and this more than anything makes Castiel force his eyes away from the safety of their glaze to turn and look at Dean, _really_ look at him. “You just – don’t,” Dean finishes. His chin is trembling ever so slightly and it isn’t anger anymore that makes his eyes shine. Castiel folds his hands on his lap. The urge to touch him has come back, but he knows it would only be met with rage and disgust.

“Dean,” he says, and the roughness in his voice mirrors the one in Dean’s. “I didn’t have a choice.”

The sound Dean lets out is wounded, an almost-animal snarl.

“Lemme guess, Cas. You did this for me? To protectme? Well, news flash, buddy. I don’t _need_ your friggin’ protection. What I need is a _friend_. I thought we were that. Obviously, I was wrong.”

Castiel stands slowly, head spinning. He can feel his hands shake as they make an aborted attempt at reaching out. He wants to throw up, wants to cry in frustration and pain, wants Dean to do something, something _more_. Punch him, maybe, to make the constant buzzing of his thoughts stop.

“I am your friend.” He is not above pleading, not when Dean’s eyes are shattered and glazed over, because it feels like it might be his last shot at passing the walls Dean built up against him. They are close, so close Castiel can feel Dean’s breath on his cheek, heavy and tinged with coffee, but Dean doesn’t seem to notice. He is staring at Castiel’s face, and something soft skims over his features, just for a second.

“I’m afraid of what might happen to you, should the angels find me here. I can protect myself, Dean, but I couldn’t burden you with my mistakes,” he presses, and even he can hear the desperation in his own tone. “I am not asking for your forgiveness, Dean. I lost that right long ago.”

His words snap Dean out of his silent hurt. He lifts his chin, looks away.

“Good thing you’re not asking for my forgiveness, Cas. ‘Cause let me tell you one thing.” His face is close, twisted with rage, and Castiel curses his heart for beating so fast. He is sure Dean can somehow hear the way it thumps against his ribcage like a frightened rabbit. “You don’t have it, Cas. I _don’t forgive you_.”

As Dean stomps away, slamming the door behind him, Castiel wonders if being human means _this_ , a succession of heartbreaks, hurting the people he loves the most. If it is, then Jonah was right. He has been human for a long time.

He blinks and presses his palms against his closed eyes, heaving in a shaky breath. And another.

He is still in this position when Kevin’s voice shatters his haze of self-loathing. This time, he doesn’t startle, too numb to even move.

“He’ll come around.”

Castiel sighs and lifts his hands away from his face, turning to look at the Prophet. There is something like pity in his eyes. Castiel doesn’t like that.

“You heard us.” 

Kevin shrugs, shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

“Yeah, well, it was hard not to.”

Castiel tips his head, conceding the point. There is a confession burning just behind his lips, and he gives in to it with surprising relief. He looks up at Kevin – barely more than a boy, really – and lets it stumble out.

“I always want to do the right thing. I always try to do what is good for him, but it seems that I always end up making the worst possible choices.”

His eyes are burning. They do that more often now, and he can’t make the tears vanish with an annoyed flick of the hand. Not anymore. There are more words, and they keep _coming_ , like they were just waiting to come out.

“I don’t know what I can do. I don’t know where to go, if he doesn’t want me here. I don’t know who I am,” he says in a rush. He clenches his jaw to keep himself from saying more. Kevin looks dumbstruck, mouth half-open. He wasn’t expecting Castiel’s outburst. Then, something like comprehension settles on his face, and Castiel steps back, wincing when his thighs hit the table.

“I apologize,” he blurts out. “That was – I don’t know why I told you this.”

Kevin seems to shake himself. “No, no. Um, I – well. You know, I don’t think you should leave. Dean he... wants you here. I don’t really know him; I only know what he lets me see.” He pauses, and Castiel nods. Dean does have a habit of wrapping himself in a layer of pretending and denial. “But…I’ve lived with them for the past six months, and I’ve overheard Sam and him talking. He was really down, and I’m not stupid. Far from it. And – well. He’ll come around eventually, but if you leave him now, it won’t happen. Ever.”

If you leave _him_ , not if you leave. The choice of words hits a chord in Castiel, and he resists the urge to cross his arms defensively. Kevin keeps sending glances at the door, probably waiting for the right moment to make an escape and scurry away to the safety of his room, where he will not have to put up with Winchesters and former angels alike.

“Thank you,” Castiel says. He means it, despite his discomfort. He had never thought of human language as liberating before. Too vague, too inexact. Now, though, it feels like a weight has been taken off his chest, even as it constricts at Kevin’s words. Ever since he came back, he has caught glimpses of what Dean’s life has been like during these months they spent apart. They are everywhere; in Sam’s yellowish skin, in his swollen eyes. In Dean’s tense shoulders, in Kevin’s reluctance at being in the same room as them.

When he shuts off of his thoughts, Kevin has disappeared.

That night, though, Castiel finds a notebook on the table; when he opens it he finds, scribbled in Kevin’s chicken scratch, an unfinished transcription of the Angel Tablet. The bunker is quiet. Sam and Dean are watching television, and Castiel can hear threads of the movie. As much as Castiel had wanted to accept when Dean had invited him to join them, he has declined.

He looks at the pile of books in front of him, at the notebook, and steels himself with a deep breath.

It is time to get some work done.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

# Part Six

 

A human being needs at least three hours of sleep per night to be able to function properly.

In Castiel’s opinion, a body is like a machine. If one doesn’t take care of it, it will lurch, break down, and eventually stop working altogether. Sleep deprivation can cause serious harm to a human's metabolic and psychological condition. Among other things, it can increase blood pressure and lead to a heart attack. It also has serious effects on neurocognitive performance.

Castiel knows all this, and much more.

It doesn’t really help with his problem.

Castiel hasn’t slept much since he arrived at the bunker. It is not so much that he doesn’t _want to_ as it is that he _can’t_. In a cruel quirk of fate, sleep has mostly failed him now that he isn’t on the streets anymore. He can’t find a reason for why he only manages to catch one or two hours just before dawn breaks, unseen as it is through the thick, windowless walls of the bunker. He has a room but he doesn’t like it. It is rather nice, though at this point anything would have been nicer than his shack of rusty metal. But it is too... blank. Too impersonal. His meager possessions aren’t enough to make him feel at home. His knife sits alone on the bedside table, and Castiel avoids looking at it. For reasons he can’t pinpoint, his chest clenches whenever he does.

The lack of sleep leaves him taciturn. It does nothing to improve the poor state of things on the Dean front. If anything, it makes the tension between them grow more toxic. It is a curious kind of tension, too. They don’t _argue_ , not exactly. Dean doesn’t snipe at him, doesn’t backstab him with stinging remarks. Rather, he _pretends_ , feigns cheeriness to the point of nausea. Maybe he acts like this for the sake of Sam and Kevin. Maybe for his own sake. Who knows what goes through his skull?

Castiel certainly doesn’t. It feels like he never did. Even when he first met him and had no qualms in reading his thoughts, they had been somewhat of an emotional tangle which Castiel could not for the life of him understand. It is probably what made Dean so fascinating during that first year. Maybe it was what precipitated his slow drift towards rebellion.

Castiel spends most nights huddled in an armchair, thumbing through a book on theological interpretation, the notebook with Kevin’s transcriptions open on the table. He hasn’t found anything other than crude misunderstandings and false leads. He is growing more desperate with each surge of crushed hope. He generally dozes off in the same position, head buzzing with frustration and pent-up anger at his own helplessness.

He has the first of the dreams on his fifteenth night at the Bunker. At first, it doesn’t worry him. He just snaps out of sleep with a start, barely a flash of color imprinted behind his eyelids. When he opens his eyes he sees Sam frowning at him across the table.

“Did you talk to me?” Castiel asks, rubbing his temples with his fingertips and craning his neck to make the stiffness disappear. He feels confused. Not in the way he should be after waking up with a book open on his lap and his head pressed against his own shoulder, but in a way that's deeper and more unsettling. He shrugs it off as a trick played by exhaustion and too many hours spent researching alone. He could use a little help, but neither Dean nor Sam seems to wonder what he does all day. He can understand it; Dean is too focused on finding a way to cure Sam completely, and Sam is in too miserable a state to be of much use.

Ruth is asleep by his feet, whimpering softly. Castiel wonders if she has nightmares too. He bends and pets her furry head until the whimpers die down, replaced by deep, peaceful breaths.

“No,” Sam says. His eyes are red, but his persistence in denying himself a full night's sleep can’t be deterred. Most nights he sits with Castiel until dawn, quietly reading or staring into the distance, his mind lost somewhere unreachable. Castiel doubts he actually suffers insomnia, as he tells Dean. The look of pure _panic_ Sam gets whenever his eyelids become heavy tells enough for Castiel to understand that it must be something related to his diminished health. “ _You_ said something.” Sam is frowning, but the corner of his mouth lifts in a half smirk. “Wasn’t English, either. I was wondering, what do angels dream of?”

Castiel shuts his eyes for a second, tries to recall this particular dream. Nothing comes, except a distressing restlessness. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem very nice. He is rather happy to escape having it in his memory.

“Mostly, I have nightmares about you and Dean. Or Meg. Or Heaven. Or –“ he shrugs. “Well, you know what I mean.” Sam’s face goes blank with shock, and Castiel realizes that the Winchesters are not accustomed to this frankness he has tried to keep a hold of. It is so easy to sink into lies, _too_ easy to wallow in their sticky hold. He doesn’t want to fall into this habit, for he knows it is what got him into this mess – should human life and misery deserve such a name – in the first place.

“Do you... want to talk about it?” Sam asks, tone cautious. He has warmed to Castiel in the past weeks, but there is still a resentment to him. Castiel knows that his proposition is a peace offering, an attempt to build a bridge between them.

“I.. don’t know,” he answers truthfully. As he shifts on his seat, the book falls on the floor in a flutter of wrinkled paper. He takes his time picking it up and frowns at its piteous, yellowy pages. “These are my burden to hold, Sam,” he says eventually, _breathes_ really, but it sounds too loud in the sleepy silence of the Bunker. 

Sam nods, slowly. He seems to understand that this is not a rejection, simply Castiel’s will to redeem himself. He, of all people, can understand this decision. There are still a lot of regrets hidden behind Sam’s smile. And Castiel knows the disease is still there, spoiling his body down to the very marrow. The spells Dean performed on him were like putting on perfume to conceal a very nasty body smell. They simply hid the sickness away, buried it and postponed its climax.

Sam’s perfume masks the smell of death and rot. Sam is suffering, probably excruciatingly. He does a very good job of hiding it from Dean, and Dean does a very good job of ignoring the glaring truth. His brother is dying, and there is nothing he can do about it. And Castiel is, once again, useless. He can’t even _see_ the progression anymore. He swallows down his guilt and bites back his apologies. They will not nurse Sam back to health.

“Can I... talk to you, then?” Sam asks, and his voice sounds so young and so old at the same time that Castiel feels his heart break all over again. _Why them?_ he thinks. _Why do they have to endure so much to receive so little in return?_

“Of course,” he says, keeping his voice as soft as he can.

Sam takes a deep breath and looks at him. For a long time they stay silent, Sam's demeanor a mixture of embarrassment and bone-deep wariness. Castiel sees the moment the dam breaks, the moment Sam casts his gaze back to the table and exhales shakily.

“I’m scared shitless, man,” he admits quietly. His hand comes up, kneads the nape of his neck. Castiel doesn’t interrupts, knows that there is more coming.

“I’m just – it’s _not fair_ ,” Sam erupts, face going red. In held-back pain, in pent-up anger towards the life he has been thrown into. “You know, when Dean asked me to stop– I _knew_ it would kill me, even if I didn’t complete the third trial. And I was _okay_ with dying, back then.”

He lifts his head, and the despair is not merely _written_ all over his face. It is a brand, something deeper etched into his soul. “I just can’t stand it. I’m _sick_ and I’m going to die and there’s nothing I can do about it. I don’t want to live like that, Cas.”

Castiel doesn’t know how to react to the outburst. He understands, to an extent, the vulnerability Sam is confessing. He also knows that words will not make it better, that at this point, there is not much left to say.

“Just – Cas. Can you promise me something?” Sam asks. Castiel blinks up at him, surprised.

“Of course.”

“When I’m –“ his voice breaks and he clears his throat. “When I’m gone. Don’t leave him alone. Keep him from doing something stupid.”

Castiel knows Sam is talking about Dean, and he also knows he will not be able to keep the promise. His reluctance must show on his face, because Sam shoots him a pleading look.

“Look, he _needs_ you. Cas, I know you care for him.” Castiel smiles wryly at the hidden meaning, the words Sam doesn’t dare pronounce. Then he feels choked with the new weight Sam is trying to shove at him. It dawns on him that _Sam is going to die_. He knew it before, in a distant, detached way, but the reality of the fact is spider-like around his throat, leaving him out of breath and grieving.

“I do,” he whispers. “But I will not let you go so easily, Sam. And Dean won’t, either. There are plenty of things you haven’t tried.”

 _And Dean needs you more than he needs me_. The thought is not bitter. It is something he has come to accept. The sky is blue, the rain is wet, and Dean will always chose his brother over anything – or anyone – else. It is an instinct so deeply ingrained inside him that it isn’t even up for question. 

Sam doesn’t answer. He stands and staggers towards the hallway.

Castiel feels like he has let him down, somehow.

***

 

# Part Seven

Three days later brings to the Bunker’s door an unpleasant surprise indeed.

Castiel is sipping his third coffee, Kevin a sleepy lump across the table. The glaring blaze of the light bulb makes his head hurt. He groans, popping an Ibuprofen into his mouth. Dean had shoved them in his hands when he first complained about his persistent headaches. He has warned Castiel against taking them more than three times a day, and whenever Castiel uses them in his presence Dean looks at him with wariness and a little... fear, as if Castiel were a bomb waiting to go off.

Kevin is working his way towards falling asleep in his mug of hot chocolate when a resounding banging on the front door startles them into awareness. In a blink, Castiel has sprung off his seat and across the kitchen, hand reaching for the gun he knows is hidden in the cupboard under the packs of flour and sugar. He primes it with mechanical movements, dashing towards the library.

Only, Dean has beaten him to it, rushing up the stairs with his own gun in hand. Ruth is growling behind Castiel. Whether it is because of the sudden tension or because her instinct tells her that whoever is behind that door isn’t good news, Castiel doesn’t know. What he knows, though, is that the sound makes his pulse skyrocket and his fingers tighten painfully on the gun.

“Go away, Kevin,” he orders, glancing over his shoulder at the wide-eyed Prophet trailing behind him. Kevin scowls, but slinks back into the relative safety of the kitchen.

“Who’s there?” Dean yells. Castiel is climbing up the stairs, blood thumping at his ears. _What if_ , he thinks irrationally, _what if they’ve found me?_

Castiel doesn’t hear the muffled answer, but Dean’s shoulders don’t relax as he fumbles with the lock. He opens it and points his gun in front of him, jaw tight. Castiel climbs the rest of the stairs in a frenzy, ready to shove Dean behind him and face whoever is on the other side, when an all-too-familiar voice makes him freeze.

“Hello, boys,” Crowley says, and Castiel’s heart is the only thing he can hear after that. The surging pulse of _hatred_ floods his veins as he grips Dean’s elbow and makes him stumble back. Ignoring Dean’s shout, he drops his gun, leaps forward and closes his hands around the neck of the demon who ruined him, who tainted him. Whom Castiel let infuse his sulfuric corruption directly into his Grace. Crowley’s back slams against the wall of the porch with a force that has a drop of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, angel-boy, what a lovely surprise,” he gasps in wide-eyed fake delight. His voice is raspy and, when Castiel’s fingers tighten around his throat, a flash of panic flits across his face.

“Cas, _stop_ ,” Dean shouts, and a hand closes on Castiel’s shoulder. “He’s not a demon anymore!”

Castiel nods decisively. “Good,” he growls, “It will be easier to kill him.”

The panic is not fleeting anymore. Crowley reeks of it, a bead of sweat leaving a shiny trail on his forehead. He is at Castiel’s mercy, and it fills him with a sensation of power he has not experienced since his Fall. Dizzy, he looks into the dark, ageless eyes and _tightens_.

Crowley’s groan dies on his lips and his face gradually takes on a shade of beetroot red.

“Cas,” Dean says again, and something in his voice betrays _fear_. Castiel lets it wrap around his anger. A small part of him just wants to ignore it and achieve his revenge, feel the demon slump in his grip, boneless in death. He believes it is called closure. But Dean’s plea echoes inside of him, revives old memories he had thought long-buried.

 _You will bow down and profess your love unto me, your Lord. Or I shall destroy you_.

The mind-numbing power deflates, leaving Castiel slightly nauseous. He lets Crowley fall on the ground and revels in the painful hiccuping breaths he draws in. Turns to Dean and takes in his wide eyes and the quiver of a muscle in his cheek.

“What is he doing here,” he says flatly.

Dean takes a step forward, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture Castiel recognizes as nervousness. The open door creaks slightly at a sudden gust of wind, and Castiel realizes they are outside. At his feet, Crowley coughs and groans some more. Castiel ignores him, every sense focused on Dean.

“I don’t know,” Dean says, voice deliberately low, as if trying to calm a spooked animal.

“I’m here to warn you, you stupid prick,” Crowley spits, standing on shaky legs. He looks ready to fall again, but neither Castiel nor Dean makes a movement to help him. Crowley wipes the blood off his chin with a careless hand, upper lip curling in disgust.

“Warn us about what?” Dean prompts.

Crowley tuts, shaking his head slowly.

“Not going to let me in? I have to admit, Dean, I’m really disappointed in you.” When Dean doesn’t move, Crowley sighs, dropping all pretenses. He looks very tired, Castiel notices. His eyes are circled with purple marks and his suit is uncharacteristically wrinkled. Castiel feels a surge of cruel satisfaction, lips curling into a smirk as he eyes a tear in Crowley’s usually pristine pants. This man – this _demon_ – tortured Samandriel to madness. He _killed Meg_. A new surge of blind fury threatens to submerge him and he clenches his fists until his nails bite into the smooth skin of his palms. He is trying to keep his mind focused on the little prickles of pain when a hand finds his lower back, pressing just slightly. Castiel glances at Dean, who is already staring at him. He arches his eyebrows. _Okay?_

Castiel shrugs. _Not really_.

When the palm leaves his back, he feels oddly cold, just for a second.

“Alright,” Dean says. “Tell us what you want.” 

Something like sheer _relief_ breaks through Crowley’s mask of haughty indifference. He tries to hide it with a smirk, but Castiel is not fooled. Nor is Dean, who looks at the salesman thoughtfully.

“I want a trade,” Crowley says abruptly.

“No,” Castiel scoffs.

“Oh, come on.” Crowley groans. “Not so long ago, you weren’t so timid.” The gibe is so obvious, Castiel doesn’t even wince at it. Instead, he focuses on the increasingly desperate edge in Crowley’s voice.

“You are afraid,” he states when the realization hits him. It is everywhere, from the poor state of Crowley’s outfit to his bitten nails. It shows in the tension of his whole body. There are bruises forming on his neck, finger-shaped. Castiel looks away.

“Whatever,” Crowley sighs. “Believe me, you want to hear what I’ve got to say. So let’s skip the niceties and get it done, shall we?”

Castiel and Dean exchange a look, measuring the probabilities of something going wrong. Castiel nods, barely a jerk of the chin, but Dean seems to get it.

There isn’t much Crowley can do to harm them in his diminished state. It's obvious that he will try to trick them, but after all these years working against or, in his most miserable moments, _with_ him, Castiel has started to understand how the demon operates.

“Okay,” Dean mutters. “But before that...”

His hand finds the inside pocket of his jacket and he pulls out a flask. Crowley groans.

“Wait, is this really necessary? The last time, I had this awful rash. It was a bitch to–“ the rest of his sentence is drowned in a gurgle as Dean splashes the entire contents of the flask in his face. There is a faint fizzle, an unpleasant scent of burnt-out flesh, but Crowley doesn’t react much, just wipes his face with his sleeve, lips downturned and eyes glaring daggers at Dean’s retreating back. Castiel smirks at him and nods towards the door, waiting until Crowley is inside to slide in behind him. Crowley shudders as he steps through the Devil’s trap at the top of the stairs. Castiel wonders what he is now, trapped on this non-existent line between demon and human being. Does he show emotions? Is he tortured by all the atrocities he has seen and perpetrated? Looking at his emaciated face and bloodshot eyes, Castiel can’t say what is an act and what is genuine, though he's almost certain that Crowley is well and truly afraid. When Crowley slumps in an armchair with a dramatic huff, there is a faint scent of whiskey. Crowley looks up at him and scowls. Dean disappears into the kitchen, probably to make sure Kevin stays there while Crowley is in the Bunker.

“What are you looking at, angel boy? Still a creepy little fledgling, aren’t you?” His eyes sweep over Castiel’s body. “Now now, where were you hiding these muscles?”

Castiel forces himself not to cross his arms defensively. He can’t hold back a shiver of repugnance when Crowley’s gaze turns lewd.

“You are inebriated,” he says with a frown. “I still want to kill you. I think you might want to keep quiet.”

Crowley chuckles, brash and so unlike the collected coolness Castiel remembers.

“That’s almost cute. You think I don’t know your wings have been cut off? You’re just a puny human now. Just like them.” He jerks his chin in the direction of the kitchen. 

Castiel’s head snaps up, a sudden burst of fury flowing through his veins. In two steps, he's in front of the armchair. He yanks Crowley up, hands clenching on the expensive cloth of his suit jacket. Crowley’s eyes are tiny beads of bitterness and sulfur. His breath is stale and uneven as Castiel leans his head close to make himself heard without alerting Dean.

“You think me weak, Crowley?” he growls, voice low and fierce. “I have news for you. I could torture you for ten years without running out of ideas. I could reduce you to a begging, bloody mess in a matter of hours. You believe you are the only one who had the _privilege_ of being instructed in the fine arts of inflicting excruciating pain? _Think again_.” He dumps Crowley back into the armchair and ignores his surprised gasp. “Don’t _ever_ forget that you have been a demon for a few pathetic centuries, while I have received _eons_ of training on how to deal with abominations like you. If you so much as look at these boys wrong, you will not live to see the next day.”

Crowley’s skin has turned pallid and he stares up at Castiel, eyes wild and shifty, looking for an escape he cannot reach.

“Are we clear?” Castiel asks, putting his thumbs almost gently to the sides of Crowley’s neck and _pressing_ on the sensitive nerves he knows are there. Crowley hisses and lets out what might have been a yes, but sounded more like a howl of pain. Castiel hastily lets go of him and steps back. When Dean reenters the room, Castiel tries to look as innocent as possible, an effort somewhat ruined by the fact that Crowley is still looking at him like he has just seen a ghost.

“Everything alright here?” Dean asks, tone dripping with suspicion. He approaches, holding three bottles of beer by the neck.

“Yes,” Crowley answers, and Castiel feels gratified at the tremor in his voice, “Just enjoying a little tete-a-tete with an old friend. Right, love?”

Even Castiel can hear the sarcasm. He rolls his eyes and accepts the beer handed to him. After a moment of hesitation, Dean hands one to Crowley as well.

“Yeah, right,” Dean says, uncapping his beer. He sounds disgruntled, but then again, the former King of Hell is sitting in his library like he owns it. It certainly gives a new meaning to the term _uninvited guest._ Castiel mirrors his gesture, but Crowley just stares at his bottle with a mildly surprised look, as if he expects it to explode in his face. Which would be a really pleasant turn of events, in Castiel’s opinion.

“So, to what do we owe the pleasure?” Dean asks after taking a long sip of his beer. His Adam’s apple is bobbing with each gulp, and Castiel finds the sight strangely fascinating. He snaps his eyes away, burying the thought as deep as he can in his mind.

“I have information I am ready to trade,” Crowley says.

Dean shakes his head like he can’t believe his ears. 

“And what makes you think we want your information?”

Crowley purses his lips. “Let’s see,” he says somberly. “Demon-Angel alliance? A reenactment of Heaven’s civil war on Earth? Humans getting caught in the crossfire?” He frowns thoughtfully for a second, then snaps his fingers. “Ah, yes, I knew I forgot something. I heard a few whispers in the demon grapevine about your little lapdog here,” he points at Castiel, leans back on his seat.

Castiel’s beer suddenly tastes like ashes. He slowly puts it down on the coffee table.

“What d’you want?” Dean asks. The light is casting stern shadows on his face. He looks like a soldier ready for battle. Castiel grips his arm forcefully.

“Dean, don’t–“

“Shut up, Cas, I wanna hear him out,” Dean says, peremptory.

Crowley grins. It is strained and lasts barely a second.

“Here’s the deal,” he says. “I tell you everything I know, and in exchange, you give me one tiny, ridiculous thing.” He stands, helping himself with the armrest. That's when Castiel notices he is favoring his left leg. What Crowley says next startles him into speechlessness. 

“I want protection.”

***

 

Here are the things Crowley tells them.

The fallen angels have started to assemble. Two groups are standing out.

The first one is the most worrying. It is led by two angels: Muriel, whom Castiel has never heard of, and Pyriel, whom he _has_ , and whose name makes him flinch in reflexive anger. Pyriel was one of the angels who had sided with Raphael during the Civil War.  He was infamous among Castiel’s followers for being the most fearless, merciless killer. Pyriel has caused the destruction of more than one angel. Castiel’s siblings’ Grace sparked with rage at the name.

But, before that, Pyriel was known to be one of Heaven’s Great Inquisitors. During Castiel’s downfall, when he was dancing around the edge of disobedience in the face of Dean’s revolt against destiny, it was Pyriel who _interrogated_ him and tortured Castiel’s orders into his brain. It was Pyriel who tore Castiel’s wings only to repair them, who bound him to a pillar in front of his brethren to set an example for those who might have followed Castiel into rebellion.

Saying that Castiel does not like Pyriel very much would be something of an understatement.

Apparently, Pyriel hasn’t evolved since the failed apocalypse. The gist of his leadership is brute strength and fear, and the thirst for revenge. Along with Muriel, who has apparently been made from the same mold, they have gathered herds of followers with two promises: They will make Humanity bow before them or perish, putting the mud-monkeys back in their true place: under the heels of their boots. They will also give their followers the blood of the abomination responsible for their presence on Earth.

They are not numerous, but Crowley has it on good authority that Muriel has met with Abaddon, which is a worrying bit of news to say the least.

The second group is of far more consequence, but also less organized, if they are organized at all. They are partial to Free Will and walk among humans, hidden and unseen. They have no designated leader, no strategy, and no preparation whatsoever for the war that threatens. Should it break out like Crowley seems to believe it will, they would be crushed in Pyriel’s and Muriel’s iron grips.

By the time Crowley stops talking, Sam and Kevin have joined them, Sam listening with an increasingly horrified expression, Kevin staring at Crowley like nothing would please him more than to finish what Castiel started earlier. Castiel just hopes he will refrain until Crowley has spat out every last piece of information he holds.

To be perfectly honest, he is surprised to see that the former demon has survived for so long. After having usurped the Throne of Hell and angered Abaddon, the Destroyer, first daughter of Lucifer, Castiel would have expected him not to survive his first day. But apparently, Crowley has more than one trick up his sleeve. His luck is apparently running out, though, which is the reason he is here today, wallowing in his own misery and smelling worse than a cask of wine.

Silence takes hold of them as they digest the news. Kevin is looking more murderous by the minute, Dean is white as a sheet, and Sam seems to be having a hard time staying upright. And Castiel –

Castiel, once more, doesn’t quite manage to summon up the energy to _feel_. He blocks out a swell of emotions bearing the recognizable mark of despair and stares into the distance, jaw clenched.

“So,” Dean says slowly. “What if we let ‘em fight until they kill one another without any help?”

Castiel bristles at the idea.

“The human casualties would be the equivalent of a thousand atomic bombs dropped everywhere in the world,” he says flatly.

Dean nods, but doesn’t look too surprised as he takes in the information. After all, this is not the first apocalyptic scenario they have been confronted with. Nor is it the first one involving angels.

“What do we do then?” Sam asks. “Cas, have any idea?”

As four pairs of eyes turn to him, Castiel’s helplessness hits him like a bullet in the head. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose to lessen his headache.

“We must – find a way to reverse Metatron’s spell,” he breathes. “We must reopen the Gates of Heaven, or the Earth will soon be a gigantic battlefield.”

 Crowley eyes him skeptically. “And how do you suggest we do that, Wonderboy? In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re a little outnumbered here.”

Castiel doesn’t question the fact that Crowley apparently includes himself in their little band of wayward strays. He will let Dean decide whether or not to hold up his end of the deal.

“That's exactly what I’ve been doing since I got here,” he says. “Every curse has a counter-curse. Every spell has a counter-spell. It means…Research. A lot of research. And we’re in the best place to start.”

Crowley groans and slumps back in the armchair, seemingly unbothered to be the only one sitting.

“I think we could use some help,” Dean says, glancing at the thousands of books aligned on the shelves.

The following silence is enough of an answer.

***

Sheriff Jody Mills is the only one able to reach the Bunker that day. She takes one look at Crowley, crosses the room and throws a punch that makes even Castiel wince. Crowley staggers back, clutching his bleeding nose.

“ _Ow_ ,” he sputters, “What was that for, you harpy?!”

The insult is slightly lost in the fact that his voice has now a reedy ring to it, reminding Castiel of a cartoon he saw once, where a duck took a bath in his money. He still thinks about it sometimes. Humans are very confusing.

“You know full well what it was for,” Jody hollers, arms akimbo. Crowley looks up. His eyes widen as he examines her more closely and he flinches.

“Ah, yes,” he says eventually. “I might have deserved that.”

 Jody hugs Sam and Dean, glowers at Crowley some more, shakes Kevin’s hand, and turns to Castiel.

“Who are you?” she asks suspiciously. She is quite young, but Castiel feels cowed by the stern lines on her forehead and her authoritative stance.

“Castiel,” he answers, wishing he could feel less awkward.

Apparently, this answer is enough to earn him a firm handshake and a smile.

“Hi, Castiel,” she says warmly. Crowley is stomping moodily down the hallway, and Castiel smiles back. It feels weird, as if his muscles have not had enough training for this particular expression, but it is somehow liberating.

Dean stares at him, something like wistfulness in his eyes.

***

Castiel has the second dream that night. For once, he has managed to drag himself to his bedroom instead of falling asleep on his chair.

He dreams of a voice calling him. Just that -- no setting, none of the usual contents of his nightmares. Just his name, spoken softly. He wakes up barely one hour after going to bed, and stares at the ceiling for a long time.

Somehow, he feels even more tired than before. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

# Part Eight

Charlie, Garth, and Linda Tran arrive at approximately the same time, around noon the next day. Castiel lost track of time the day he moved in with Sam and Dean, and he is mildly surprised when Kevin informs him that it is the first day of spring.

Linda slaps Crowley hard across the face, and yells “ _You told my son I was dead, you –you demon.”_

Crowley simply sighs and asks if anyone else wants to take a shot. After catching Kevin’s expression, he hastily scurries away, muttering something about psychopaths and racism which Castiel doesn’t even try to decipher.

Garth is gangly and talkative, smiling goofily at Sam. He is wearing a baseball cap that looks terribly familiar, and Castiel averts his gaze when he understands that it reminds him of Robert Singer. Garth talks a lot, and there is something almost innocent to him. He doesn’t look like any hunter Castiel has met before.

“He grows on you,” Sam offers weakly after Garth hugs the life out of Castiel. Castiel nods shakily.

“I will take your word for it.”

Charlie really is a mystery to Castiel. Around the brothers, she acts with the kind of familiarity that Castiel recognizes as friendship. As sad as it may be, he'd had no idea the Winchesters even _had_ friends outside their closed-off little world.

Charlie stares at him openly when Dean introduces them, her eyes wide and sparkling with respect. She doesn’t try to question him, but Castiel can almost see the questions on the tip of her tongue. It's been a long time since someone has been subdued by what he used to be. Castiel tries not to feel satisfied at that, without much success.

They fall into a frenzy of research. Everywhere, books are piled, journals and newspapers discarded on the floor. Charlie spends her time in front of her laptop, typing with nimble fingers and muttering curses at seemingly random moments.

Castiel doesn’t quite manage to share their cheer – they laugh and tease each other across the table, grinning when a new leads pops up. He knows full well that they will not make a breakthrough today, if ever. However, he likes to see Dean so relaxed, huddled next to Charlie and scribbling whatever Sam is dictating into a worn out leather journal. Dean catches his eyes and, for a second, holds his gaze, the ghost of a smile floating around his lips.

Castiel’s heart feels like it might implode.

***

The third dream is white: White ground, white sky, white noise.

Castiel forgets how to breathe.

He wakes with a gasp, clutching his throat in the hope of easing the passage of air. He is light-headed, dizzy with oxygen deprivation.

He sighs and goes to take a shower.

***

Castiel is still unused to the oneiric world his brain creates when his body is asleep, but he knows the dreams are unusual. He has them every night now.

When he was in Chicago, he would dream of torture and death, see Samandriel’s Grace seep around Castiel’s blade, hear Dean’s supplications or Meg’s screams. When he woke from those dreams he was terrified, but a small part of him knew that they were just that -- dreams. He just had to believe that to make them drift away along with the haze of lethargy.

Now the dreams he has leave him confused and enraged. They keep _escaping_ him,  flashes of colors and voices. He tries to scribble them into the brand-new notebook Dean gave him on the second day of his stay, but the things he can retain don’t make any sense. He dreams of a frozen garden. It feels holy, not in the pompous way of a Cathedral, but with a delicateness Castiel has only ever found in the immutable sanctity of Heaven. In this frozen garden there is no snow, only a thin layer of frost glistening on the grass like thousands of silvers of glass. He can make out a tree from afar, immense and majestic, its white branches immobile. Castiel knows this tree is _alive_. It echoes within his very core, a soft voice repeating the same word again and again. The _word_ itself slips from his memory. And somehow, after two weeks of waking up with his heart heavy with a melancholy he can’t explain, Castiel becomes convinced that this word is a key.

He just hasn’t found the lock yet.

The world feels like it goes too fast around him. Charlie's, Linda's, and Jody’s voices ring through his skull. He tries to ignore them but finds himself more and more annoyed at the crowded bunker and at the source of the noise in general. Crowley has found a stash of alcohol hidden in some storage room, and the old whiskey loosens his tongue. Most of the time, Castiel wants to knock him out with his own bottle.

His features turn gaunter with every night spent waiting for sleep to claim him, to bring him back to this peaceful, silent land. During the day, he catches Sam’s worried looks and Dean’s clenched jaw, feels the burning stares on the back of his head. He knows he _should_ care, and he does, in some very distant part of his mind. He just doesn’t have the _time_ to fix things up between them.

The new dreams have chased away the ones where Dean’s eyes turned soft and his hands curled around the back of Castiel’s neck, the ones where they kissed tenderly before tangling on the nearest surface and tearing at each other’s clothes. He doesn’t miss those dreams. They usually left him feeling ashamed and bereft, hard in his jeans.

Four days later, only Garth and Linda are still helping them, Charlie and Jody both having regular jobs to go back to. Castiel finds solace in the renewed silence, plunges himself deeper into his frantic search for answers. He doesn’t even bother with the list of titles he'd made on his first day. He follows his instinct, and more and more often the books that fall between his hands are in no way related to Christianity, Islam or Judaism. He thumbs through a journal written by a Pagan occultist, a list of very dark spells that make him slightly nauseous, a collection of Norse myths. The latter makes something prickle at the back of his neck, and he spends more time with it, frustrated when nothing comes back to him.  

“Um…Castiel?”

Castiel snaps out of his daydream at Sam’s voice, and realizes he has been staring at the wall for – he doesn’t know how long. He scowls and claps his book shut.

“Yes, Sam,” he says, looking up at Sam’s huge body hovering awkwardly in front him. He notices Dean standing in a corner with his arms crossed. Sam seems to take his answer as an invitation to sit down in the nearest chair. His hands are folded together, eyebrows drawn and mouth pinched in a tight line.

“Is something the matter?” Castiel asks, concerned. He is sure he would have noticed if something bad had happened. Or would he? He has been spacing out more often lately. He doesn’t really know why.

“No, no,” Sam answers hurriedly. “We’re fine.” Dean huffs from his corner, but Sam ignores him, rubbing his palms together. “Actually,” he says, hesitant. Castiel leans towards him and nods. It seems to make Sam even more uncomfortable. “We’re worried about you.”

Castiel frowns. “Really? Why?”

The question is genuine. He knows he hasn’t been sleeping much, but then again, neither has Sam, and Dean seems to have grown used to it.

“You’ve been…different,” Sam says.

Castiel laughs. He doesn’t mean it to sound cold, but it does all the same. “Yes, I’m human now. Humans and angels are, by definition, different.”

This time, Dean’s annoyed huff is accompanied with a dry chuckle. Sam turns to face him, glaring.

“Something you wanna add, Dean?”

Dean uncrosses his arms and steps forward, face stony.

“As a matter of fact, yeah, there is.” His eyes are laser-like when they turn to Castiel, and he does his best not to flinch. “We’re not talkin’ _human_ different here, Cas. Believe me, I know a thing or two about being human. I saw you when you got here, buddy, and you sure weren’t like this.”

Castiel lifts his chin, stung. The bite in Dean’s tone makes a long-forgotten anger swell in the pit of his stomach and he stands up slowly. The movement makes his head spin, and he places his hands on the table as casually as possible to stop his legs from failing him.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks, trying to inject as much warning as he can to stop Dean from crossing the room and force him to actually _answer_ the question. Dean has this habit of poking where it hurts, of spitting out the truth and holding Castiel’s eyes open, forcing him to see it in all its gruesome realness. But Dean doesn’t hesitate before stepping right between Sam and Castiel, eyes blazing. Castiel does not recoil, meets them with the same intensity.

“Damn it, Cas, just look at yourself!” Dean is almost shouting. It is painful to hear. “You look like a friggin’ junkie. Half the time you don’t even notice we’re here. You wouldn’t eat if we didn’t _tell_ you to. You scare the hell outta Kevin, and you haven’t walked your goddamn dog in a week!”

 _Ruth_. Castiel had forgotten about Ruth. It feels very wrong, tugs at something deep inside him. Pierces through the strange, peaceful veil separating him from the real world. It must show on his features, because Dean’s expression goes from furious at confusedly sad.

“What’s happening to you, Cas?” he asks quietly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re stoned. But I _do_ know better. I checked. So – tell us. What’s happening to you?”

Castiel’s heart is pounding. He can hear the soft _thump_ in his ears, his breath uneven. _There is something wrong_ , he thinks. _There is something wrong with me_. He thinks he hears Dean call his name once more, but he can’t move. He is in the frozen garden, but this time it doesn’t feel right. The voice whispers, _Come to me, come to me, Child of the Skies, come to me_ , _Eddinu, A Wacah Chan_ , _Ygg_ -

He is brutally called back to reality when he feels a hand connect with his cheek, his skin burning. His own hand shoots up, fingers gripping Dean’s wrist before he can slap him a second time.

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean says, and he sounds panicked now. Castiel blinks at him, andreality comes crashing around him with a vividness he hasn’t felt in weeks. No numbness anymore, just the painful sting of his cheek and Dean’s eyes, _panickedscaredangry_. Sam is saying something but Dean doesn’t move, stares at him, face frozen in shock.

“Dean,” Castiel chokes out. His head hurts, feels like it has been split in two. His hand refuses to obey, to let go of Dean’s wrist. “Dean, help me.”

Everything goes dark. And then –

He

Falls.

***

 

 

 

# Part Nine

He is walking in the frozen garden. A thousand whispers curl around him, caressing his skin like cold, dead fingers. Everything is congealed, even his movements as he slowly kneels to touch the petals of a blue flower. They shudder under his fingertips.

There is a voice calling him. It is clear, and it rings through the solid air around him. He breathes in deep and it seems like shards of ice are piercing his lungs. It isn’t painful, though. He stands.

“Where are you?” he asks.

The voice calls his name again and a gust of glacial wind pushes him forward, down a path leading to an unknown destination. He doesn’t try to resist it, lets his feet obey the unspoken order. The sky is white above him, too pure for his human eyes.

He doesn’t know how long he walks. The landscape slowly changes and the white grass turns wilder under his feet. The whispers are more pregnant with the distance and he has to resist the urge to press his palms against his ears.

“Stop it,” he hisses through gritted teeth. “I can’t understand you.”

It seems to anger them more than anything and they turn accusing, like needles going through his eardrums.

By the time he sees it, his head is pounding and there is blood trickling from his nose with the sheer effort of _rejecting_ them.

It is the tree, like in his other dreams.

Except that now he knows that they never were dreams. He knows that somehow he is really here, lost in a layer of reality he cannot comprehend. This time this is not a flash, not an ephemeral vision. He sees the tree in all its splendor, its majestic branches heavy with ageless wisdom. And he _knows_ it is not merely a tree. It is more than that, glimmering softly with ghosts of shadows.

He looks up, but the crown of the tree is not visible, disappearing into the bright glaze of the sky.

“Hello,” he says.

At first, nothing happens. The world seems to still around him, but for the hissing of the voices trying to drive into his brain. He ignores them.

When it answers, it is with a flood of feelings, of sensations going through his mind too fast for Castiel to analyze them. It seems to sense that. A second later, a sighing voice flutters into the atmosphere. The whispers fall quiet, reverent. Everything is so bright. Castiel squints to lessen the pain in his skull.

 _Hello, Castiel_.

When he looks around, there is no one. He returns his attention to the tree. The bark is smooth, and he has to stop himself from reaching out to test its strength under his hand.

“Where am I?” Castiel asks. “Who are you?”

A wave of confusion flies through him. He realizes idly that it is not his own.

_Which one of these questions do you want me to answer?_

Castiel shakes his head.

“Who are you?”

Amusement, slightly patronizing.

_I have many names._

Irritation fills Castiel and he knows for a fact that this one is all his. The creature seems to pick up on it and a slight breeze plays in Castiel’s hair, like a chuckle.

 _They call me A Wacah Chan, or Yggdrasill. They call me the Tree of Life, The World Tree. They call me Ağaç Ana and Ashvattha_.

Castiel closes his eyes. The words call up something in his older-than-life memory. A knowledge. Religions, stories.

Legends.

A creaking sound makes him snap his eyes open, only to see the bark being sliced open with a screech by an invisible blade. It shakes and curls on itself like the edges of a wound under scorching iron. The Tree is giving birth to _something_ , and Castiel takes a step back, choked with sudden dread. He has seen many things in his life, but never has he laid eyes on such a spectacle. He cannot tear his gaze from it, cannot decide whether he is witnessing a miracle or a heresy. He watches with sick fascination as the tree reveals an empty core. Something is forming inside, made of sand and wood, made of power and the hardness of diamond. It shines too bright, and his eyelids close of their own volition, protecting his fragile corneas.

There is a sigh of wind, a faint scent of lightning.

“Look at me.”

The voice is inflexible, and Castiel finds himself obeying without a second thought. The eyes that stare back at him are dark like the depths of the Earth, wide and contemplative as they pierce through his armor of bones and organs to probe at his thoughts. He feels the tug at his mind and rebels against the intrusion, but doesn’t dare move. The woman in front of him could be fourteen years old or she could be three hundred. Her hair is as white as the Tree’s foliage, her skin as dark as its bark. She is not human, and something in her stance is both menacing and motherly. Her only apparel is a veined shadow flickering over her naked body.

“What a beautiful, broken thing,” she murmurs, cupping Castiel’s cheek in her hand. Her nails are long and hard and he does his best not to flinch when they scrape the sensitive skin below his ear. She withdraws her hand after a second, eyes never leaving Castiel’s. A strange emotion submerges him, makes him want to curl in on himself and bask in the glow of this frozen world -- so peaceful. So dangerous.

“What – what do you want from me?” he rasps.

She laughs, and the sound of it echoes around them, rivulets of crystalline water hanging in each leaf of the Tree.

“I did not call you, little man. You called me.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. He takes a step back to escape the overwhelming presence of the creature. Yggdrasill smiles, revealing a row of pointy teeth. She is feline, closing the space between them with inhuman rapidity.

“Welcome to my humble abode, little man,” she says, opening her arms. “Now, it is time for you to _know_.”

When she tips his head with a hand on his chin and kisses him on the lips, he doesn’t have time to react before the flood of images and emotions makes him stumble back into unconsciousness.

***

_Yggdrasill watches the birth of the Youngest God, an explosion of light. She smiles and cradles Him like she cradled the others, whispering tales of life and destruction._

_She watches as He chooses one planet in the galaxy, a little blue thing, so insignificant. She watches as He holds in His immaterial hands the Grace of the First-Born, the Grace of the proudest and the most luminous of His children. The God is arrogant, like all Gods before him. She sees the birth of the Morning Star. She sees the creation of Heaven, and She thinks,_ what a beautiful, broken thing _._

_She watches as the bacteria becomes fish, as the fish learns to walk and breathe out of the water. She watches the Mitosis of the Earth, the separation of one cell into thousands of different beings. She watches as the Older Gods survey this new playground with barely concealed interest._

_Yggdrasill watches as the Youngest God molds his Army, thousands of mindless waves of Light and Wrath. Yggdrasill watches the Youngest God age; she watches him cry as the Morning Star falls and becomes King of Darkness. She watches as the spawns of Lucifer start roaming the Earth, as the first War breaks out between Heaven and Hell._

_The Older Gods that chose the Earth are perishing. Yggdrasill watches them as they pass away, leaving only a handful of weakened strays to pick at the threads of Faith they can find. They become rabid, turning against one another. For the first time, Yggdrasill feels sadness._

_The Crown of the Tree of Life stands above Heaven. The Youngest God is ready to leave His offspring. He looks up at Yggdrasill and says_ take this key, Mother. It will open the Gates of Edinnu when the time comes. _Yggdrasill looks at Him and answers_. Do you understand that once you give it to me, you will not be allowed to come back? _The Youngest understands_. _Yggdrasill accepts and buries the Key at the center of Herself. Yggdrasill watches as the Youngest God leaves behind a flawed Heaven. She watches it boil with treason and war._

_Yggdrasill cries and nurses the broken heart of a Mother._

***

Castiel opens his eyes to Her impassible face. He is lying on the ground, staring into Her eyes. The world around him is spinning like a top. Nothing exists but these lakes of ancient wisdom.

“You,” he gasps. “I thought…” His voice trails off and he closes his mouth, struggling to adjust his vision of the world, his vision of _his_ world. Yggdrasill smiles, and holds a sadness he can’t conceive, not with his skimpy mind in the face of such immensity.

“I have the object you seek, little man,” She says softly, “but what are you ready to sacrifice in order to obtain it?”

Castiel frowns.

“What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

The moment he pronounces the words, his chest start aching with the certitude that he _does_ understand. In Yggdrasill’s eyes, there is a quiver of sympathy.

“I am the balance of the universe, little man,” She says. “For what you receive from me, you must give something. Your Father asked me to keep the Key. I asked him to give up His right to be a Father. You want me to give you the Key. What are you willing to give in exchange?”

Castiel closes his eyes. He sees Sam, and his broken dreams of a quiet life. He sees Meg, the demon who changed for him, who died for him. The demon who loved, against all odds.

He sees Dean, and his heart breaks, breaks under the weight of the choice. The pain is impossibly physical. A raw sob rings through his ears, and he realizes it is coming from him. The tears are wet and tepid against his cheeks.

He sees what will happen if he doesn’t accept, and  it is only despair and destruction. Humans trampled under the feet of a war that isn’t theirs. The imprints of wings scorching the earth as his siblings fall and die in the mud.

_What are you willing to give in exchange?_

And Castiel says, “Everything that is mine to give.”

There is a silence, and it is deafening. Even the whispers have ceased, and he thinks he can feel the hands of a thousand sacrificed souls traipsing over his body.

“Look at me, little man,” Yggdrasill says.

Castiel complies, and the simple gesture makes more tears swell and fall, catching on his eyelids.

“Do you understand what it means? Once you have completed your duty, I will claim you and you will join the very essence of my kingdom. You will not see your loved ones ever again. You will not grow old, you will not know the joy and pains of being a father. Do you understand this?”

Castiel takes a shuddering breath, deepened by the howl of distress blocked in the back of his throat. He lets his head fall back on the ground, too heavy for him to bear.

“Yes,” he breathes.

Something starts burning inside his chest, like a firebrand engraving a claim on his soul. Castiel hears Yggdrasill slink back into Her wooden shell.

“The Key will follow you. Find the Guardian of Edinnu,” she booms, the words lodging themselves inside Castiel’s brain like blood-red embers. “He will help you.”

Invisible fingertips caress his face, soothing. They dry his tears before they fall, numb his searing torment.

“It is time for you to wake up, little man. We will see each other again, soon.”

As the world of Yggdrasill fades away, the last thing Castiel sees is a lonely snowflake twirling along with the wind.

***

Castiel opens his eyes to shouts and panicked orders. He blinks up at the ceiling, trying to adjust to his sudden return to the real world. His hand is flat on his chest, and he can feel it heave sharply with each quick, uneven breath.

“ _Cas_.”

Dean’s voice, terrified and broken, snaps him out of his haze and he sits up briskly.

Too briskly. His head pulses with white-hot pain and he cries out, closing his eyes. His hands shoot up to mask his ears in a pointless attempt to shield away the noise.

“ _Out_ ,” Dean says. He doesn’t raise his voice, but the authority is obvious. “Everybody, out! Except Sam.”

Gradually, the room turns more silent. Castiel can hear Kevin and Linda’s muffled conversation when the door closes. Castiel risks cracking one eye open and regrets it when it sends a new thrum through his brain.

“Lights,” he says. His voice is raspy from disuse, his tongue is dry and tastes awful, sitting heavy in his mouth. “Turn off the lights.”

Sam’s voice is soft and apologetic when he answers. “We can’t, Cas, sorry. We have to see you.”

“Wait,” Dean says. There’s a shuffling sound, the click of a switch. Another one, louder. Castiel opens his eyes tentatively to find that Dean has turned off the ceiling light and put the bedside lamp on the floor, where it glows faintly. Castiel sighs in relief and carefully leans back against the mattress.

“Can –“ his voice breaks and he frowns. Clears his throat. “Can I have water, please?”

A second later, a cool glass is being pressed into his palm. He straightens and gulps the water eagerly. Some of it trickles down his chin but he doesn’t pay attention to it.

“Slow down,” Dean says gruffly. “You’ll choke.”

Castiel complies, finishing the glass in three gulps. When he is done, he lets Dean take it from him. 

“What happened, Cas?” Sam asks. “You kind of... passed out. You slept for almost two days straight. And ten minutes ago, the Bunker started shaking and when we came to check in on you, you were glowing like a beacon.”

Castiel feels a foreign weight on his finger. When he holds his hand in front of his face, he sees that it is a ring, forged in a dark blue metal Castiel has never encountered before. It is smooth when he trails his finger along it.

“I met someone,” he says softly.

Dean and Sam are looking at him expectantly.

So he tells them the truth.

Most of it, anyway.

When he stops talking, he feels tired, like his body is trying to claim back the sleep it has been deprived of.

His friends are silent next to the bed. When Dean takes his hand, pokes at the ring warily, Castiel shudders and tightens his fingers around Dean’s. There is a moment when Dean doesn’t react, but then he looks up.

“She gave it to you? Just like that?” he asks, and the hope in his voice hurts Castiel. He looks up in Dean’s eyes, finds the courage to smile faintly.

“Yes,” he says. “Just like that.” 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for sexual content. if you want to skip the scene, skip the last part of the chapter (part 11)

# Part Ten

_I made a choice,_ he writes. _There is no other way_.

Castiel has never let himself cry.

 _I made a choice and it is for the best. Everything will be back in order_.

Castiel has never let himself talk. Expressing his feelings is not something he knows how to do. He is only just learning _how_ to feel, how to name the tiny internal turmoils wandering through his mind. He is only just learning how feeling _can_ hurt in the most physical way, can leave him out of breath, chest crushed, tortured with a need to escape, _escape_.

 _You will forget me_ , he writes. _Humans forget. It is their strength and their weakness_.

He tries to imagine what it is like, not to be remembered.

 _I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I needed to learn to know you, the human way. I feel like I at least had the right to do that. There is something redeeming in a sacrifice_.

Castiel has never let himself cry, but it seems that this is not something he can control anymore. One week after his strange encounter, the ring still weighs heavily around his finger. Dean fusses over him, of course. It is almost as if Castiel’s coma has scared the silence away. Apparently, he is not yet strong enough to seek Joshua, Guardian of Edinnu. He needs to gather his strength.

Castiel knows that he doesn’t really _need_ to, but he goes along with it. He will take what life gives him, for the little time he has yet to live. 

 _I love you_ , he writes. _Maybe one day I will find the courage to tell you this._

The journal is leather-bound, much like John Winchester’s. Its cover is broad and smooth under Castiel’s palms. He closes his eyes and inhales the scent of the thick, grainy paper. There is something melancholic about this smell. It tickles at a sense memory he didn’t even know he had, probably a faded remnant of Jimmy Novak’s life.

He has learnt to associate what his senses pick up with reminiscences, with sensations. Like the way his mouth waters at the smell of scrambled eggs or bacon cheeseburgers, or how his eyelids fall shut when his cheek touches the cool pillow.

Ruth has forgiven him for his neglect of the past weeks. Of course she has, he muses. She is not made the human way; resentment is not something she is familiar with. Sometimes Castiel wishes he were a dog.

Every day, he walks her down a path through the undergrowth of the nearby woods.

Today is rainy, but he doesn’t shy away from the task. He finds he likes how his shoes sink into the wet, green moss. The scents are heady, blending together into something that has him breathing in deeply, trying to decipher them. Earth, sap, resin. Spring is a season of rebirth.

Ruth likes to chase after tree squirrels. It would seem that she doesn’t do it with the idea of killing one. She just barks, and runs until the small, gray balls of fur disappear out of her reach, scurrying along the branches of the closest elm. Then Ruth comes back and head-butts him until he gives in and sits on his heels next to her.

She flops down on her side and closes her eyes. It almost looks like she is smiling in bliss.

“I will miss you,” Castiel tells her as his hand finds her fluffy neck. “I hope you know that.”

She cracks an eye open and yaps questioningly. He shushes her and looks up when the complexion of the light changes, warmth bathing the nape of his neck.

A sunbeam has pierced through the dark leafage, transforming it into a gigantic, translucent canvas. Raindrops are shivering precariously on each leaf like tiny watery pearls.

He doesn’t want to leave this life. Not when he has just discovered it.

***

“Hello, Castiel,” Linda says when he walks into the kitchen, Ruth trailing behind him. “Hello, Ruth,” she coos. “C’mere, sweetie.” 

Castiel smiles to himself. Ruth won Linda over at first sight. In fact, the only person whom she hasn’t yet wooed is Dean, who still looks wary around her. It has decreased with time, but he is still obviously nervous when she's around.

“Hello, Linda,” he says, pouring kibble – a new brand, much more expansive than the one he could afford in Chicago – into Ruth’s bowl. He likes Linda Tran. She is a surprising woman and, like Nora, doesn’t take any of Castiel’s “bullshit”. She frowns at his mood swings and whacks him on the back of the head with Ruth’s rolled newspaper when he snaps at her. Once, Castiel would have smitten her just for that. Now, he just glares and forces himself to be more sociable. After all, this woman punched Crowley in the face twice and is still alive. There must be some kind of witchcraft behind it, and he wouldn’t want to get on her wrong side.

He sees in the way she looks at Kevin the astounding amount of love she has to give. He sees the way Kevin pretends to find it uncomfortable and embarrassing, but revels in it secretly.

He looks at Dean and Sam and Ruth, and thinks _we’re family._ Because family hurt each other, family would go to Hell and back for each other, family betray and love and forgive each other.

“Castiel, stop,” Linda says, and Castiel blinks down at Ruth’s bowl on the tabletop, at the bag of kibbles he is still tipping. They have brimmed over the top and started to flood the table.

“Shit,” he mutters, trying to get most of them back into the bag without breathing through his nose. There is nothing more repellent than the smell of dog food before his morning coffee.

“Language,” she chides distractedly, frowning at her book. Castiel turns to hide his smile. Even the fearless Winchesters cower before the authority of this tiny woman when she decides that they have left the toilet seat up one time too many.

“Sorry,” he says, putting the bowl on the floor for Ruth to eat.

“I think Charlie is coming today,” Linda says thoughtfully as Castiel rinses a cup in the sink and pours himself a coffee.

“Maybe,” Castiel says mildly. He doesn’t really remember Charlie. The week before his ‘coma’ is something of a blur. Sighing, he sits down and starts munching unenthusiastically on a piece of toast. It is half burnt and somewhat stale.

Sam stomps into the kitchen, hair mussed with sleep and eyes reddened.

“'Lo,” he grunts. Castiel and Linda wisely keep silent as he downs a glass of water and goes back to hiding in his room. As he leaves, they exchange a look. Sam’s eyes are circled with red, his skin waxen and his features drawn. He barely talks and doesn’t manage to eat more than once a day. The night before, Castiel found him coughing phlegm and blood into the bathroom sink.

“He’s not okay, is he?” Linda asks quietly. Castiel looks at her worried face and shakes his head.

“No, I’m afraid he isn’t.”

Linda looks down at her hands, fingers clenched and brow furrowed.

“Damn,” she says with feeling. Castiel frowns at the frustration in her tone. “There must be something we can do.”

Castiel sighs, feeling a new brand of guilt sear through his stomach.

“I am powerless. I wish I could do more for him.”

“Oh, stop with the self-flagellation, it’s getting old,” Linda says, putting down her cup of tea with a loud clunk. Startled, Castiel stares at her as she dumps the rest of her drink into the sink and begins to forcefully scrub a plate. “Nobody blames you for what is happening to Sam.” The smell of the dish soap is unpleasantly sweet.

“Yes,” Castiel says. Abandoning his toast, he stands and grabs the tea towel. They work in silence for a while, their shoulders brushing occasionally. Castiel finds he likes human contact, these casual bursts of warmth that remind him that _he isn’t alone_.

“Can’t the angels help him?” Linda asks suddenly. Castiel freezes at the question, towel hanging loosely in his hand. She doesn’t notice, too busy trying to squeeze the soap out of the sponge. “They’re – well, they’re _angels_. I know Sam and Dean don’t like them, but you’re decent. There must be at least some of them who could help us.”

Castiel blinks slowly. The towel falls on the floor with a fluttering sound as an idea – a stupidly simple idea – makes its way through his brain, ignited by Linda’s words.

“I – I’m sorry,” he says. “I must speak to Dean.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer as he leaves the kitchen, looking around for the familiar face. Dean isn’t in the library. There is only Crowley, asleep in what he has claimed as _his_ armchair. Castiel resists the petty urge to smack him across the face and bypasses him. The former King of Hell has proven to be a rather silent guest, a fact for which he can’t help being grateful. He doesn’t think he could have endured Crowley’s continual digs.

He stops short at the door to Dean’s room, hesitating. He has never entered it, has never dared to cross this line. Today, though, he doesn’t have the time to ponder. He knocks, knuckles rasping against the wood. There is a mumbled “ _Come in_.” Castiel swallows and opens the door.

Dean is sitting on the bed, eyes heavy with sleep and hair disheveled. He is a sight to behold. Castiel is not used to see Dean like this, soft and defenseless. He suddenly wants to cross the distance between them and bury his hands in the shock of hair, slightly longer than Dean used to wear it.

“’s too early for your staring, Cas. What’s it?”

Castiel looks away and clears his throat. He steps inside the room, door closing softly behind him. Dean’s bedroom is clean and tidy, everything in its own place. His eyes are drawn by the faded colors of a photograph. Mary Winchester and her elder son, both smiling. He looks at the child Dean used to be, ignorant and happy, doted on with all the love he deserved.

“Cas,” Dean groans, head hitting the pillow. “Didja come here for a tour? ‘Cause it could’ve waited until a decent hour.”

Castiel frowns and looks at the bundle of sheets hiding Dean from view.

“It is nine,” he says sternly. “I think that qualifies as a decent hour.” He approaches slowly, hovering above the side of the bed. Dean’s hand is limp over the white-washed cloth. His own hand twitches with the urge to take it. “I want to talk to you.”

There is a rustle and Dean’s head appears from under the pillow, one eye cracked open.

“What about?”

“Sam.”

He sees the burst of tension, and hastens to clarify. “Nothing bad happened. I just had an idea.”

Dean’s body relaxes back on the bed.

“Siddown.”

Castiel tilts his head, wondering if he heard wrong.

“What?”

“Sit down on the goddamn bed, Cas. I’m not doing this with you…lurking over me like some kind of sleep-eating vulture.”

“You don’t make any sense. And I don’t _lurk_ ,” Castiel grumbles, but he sits all the same. The bed dips under him, and the sheets slide over Dean’s bare chest, drawing his gaze. The anti-possession tattoo stands out on smooth skin.

“My eyes are up here, Cas,” Dean says. He sounds a little surprised. Castiel tears his gaze from Dean’s chest, back to Dean’s face. He is greeted by a slight smirk. Castiel blinks at him. He had expected something different. A few years ago, Dean would have barked something at him, would have reminded him of personal space or proper conduct when interacting with a heterosexual male. Now, Dean just looks... amused, wary, a little nervous maybe. It makes a thousand new questions bubble in Castiel’s mind, but he pushes them away. Now is not the time to dwell on something like that, not when his friend is dying in the room across the hallway.

“I –” his voice turns out to be rougher than he is used to. He clears his throat uncomfortably, trying to get rid of the odd sensation pulsing in his belly. “I met an angel, in Chicago.”

 “Jonah,” Dean says, eyes dark and tone hushed. He is still lying on his side, one hand tucked between his head and the pillow and the other playing idly with the sheets.

Castiel draws in a shaky breath and nods.

“Yes, Jonah.” He doesn’t know why he feels the need to answer in the same way. Their voices are low, almost unintelligible in the silent room. It feels... _intimate_ is the only thing that comes to Castiel’s mind.

“What about him?”

“Well, he wasn’t – adverse to the idea of helping me, back then. He even protected me. And I think – he could help Sam. Maybe.”

Dean is frowning now. There is a delicate crease between his eyebrows, sharpening the faint lines on his forehead.

“But you weren’t able to help him when you were still –” in a show of tact, he doesn’t finish the sentence, but Castiel understands all the same.

“We don’t have the same powers, Dean. I was not made to be a healer. I was not made to _think_ like one. I was made to be a strategist.”

Dean look at him, his face turning serious.

“Cas. There’s no way I’m letting Sam anywhere near an angel I don’t know if I can trust. And you don’t even know if he’s alive. You don’t know which side he’s on. It could be suicidal to try and talk to him.”

Castiel huffs, leaning over the bed to shoot Dean a withering look.

“I was not suggesting we invite him for tea, Dean. I could summon him far from the bunker, trap him into a ring of holy fire to make sure he couldn’t attack me. We _need_ more information on the angel front, Dean. And Sam isn’t well. You know it. We need to do something.” When he stops talking, he is out of breath and Dean has closed his eyes. For a stunned moment, Castiel almost thinks he has fallen asleep during his rant, but after a second, he opens them again.

“Okay,” he says.

Castiel straightens. The acceptance throws him off balance. He was prepared to have to argue for it.

“Okay?” he repeats. Dean nods curtly and sits back on the bed, head tipped against the headboard.

“When do we go?”

Dean’s eyes are riveted to the ceiling. Castiel looks at the tense set of his jaw, and it's like Dean expects what's coming. The fact that he doesn’t look surprised by what Castiel says next only confirms his suspicions.

“I would prefer you didn’t come, Dean.”

Dean grins suddenly, large and so _Dean_ that Castiel’s breath hitches in his throat. His palms feel sticky with a sudden afflux of perspiration.

“Nope,” Dean says, popping the ‘p’. Castiel frowns, trying to work out if his smile is faked, but it feels genuine. Nothing in the situation seems deserving of such an expression. “It ain’t happening. We’re doing this together, or we don’t do this at all. Your choice.”

The following silence is loaded. Dean is looking him straight in the eyes, and his smile slips slowly from his lips with each second Castiel fails to come up with an answer. He huffs, face turning stony and cold once again. He is slipping away, back into this secluded place where they are strangers to each other. Castiel refuses it, can’t go back to that stilted parody of a relationship. Can’t see what little they have left crumble to pieces while he just watches.

“Together,” he blurts out. “We’re doing this together.”

Dean’s expression clears, like clouds pushed away by the wind. He doesn’t smile then, but somehow, it feels even truer.

And Castiel knows that, for once, he has made the right choice.

***

They've been driving for an hour, and for the first time since he fell, Castiel feels like he can breathe again. The sky is tentatively blue, testing the waters for the return of summer. They don’t talk, but for once it isn’t charged with tension. The road  stretches before them, infinite shades of gray disappearing into the distance.

“Pick a tape,” Dean says suddenly, and Castiel tears his eyes from the window to glance at him.

“Pardon?”

Dean huffs a laugh, shaking his head. Keeping his eyes on the road, he points in the direction of the glove box.

“Pick a tape. Music.”

Castiel distinctly remembers Dean forbidding him to mess with his tapes years ago, during one of their long drives towards the apocalypse. Back then, Sam and Dean weren’t talking to each other, and Castiel remembers the purring sound of the engine and the warmth emanating from the radiator as he leaned his head against the window, watching the slow trail of raindrops on the cold glass. Sometimes Dean would start singing, absent-mindedly and a little off-key, and Castiel would close his eyes and let his voice numb his confusion and his wariness.

He doesn’t tell Dean that. In fact, he doesn’t say anything, just bends and opens the glove box. He fumbles with the tapes, squinting to read the names scrawled on the sides. He doesn’t recognize any, but then again, he didn’t expect to.

_Accept. Foreigner. Blue Öyster Cult. AC/DC. Janis Joplin. Creedence Clearwater Revival._

He picks the latter, because he likes the name. He still hasn’t had the occasion to discover what he _likes_. He knows he likes to watch TV, but in an indiscriminate way, from teleshopping to cartoons, from movies to political programs and, on one memorable night when he couldn’t sleep, reruns of a ridiculous thing called _The Real Housewives of New Jersey_.

Food, he likes food. He found his preferences there early on. He likes bacon cheeseburgers more than salad, and the simple smell of beans makes his stomach lurch.

He hands Dean the tape, and sees his eyebrows shoot up as he reads the name.

“Didn’t know I still had that,” he mutters, but thankfully he doesn’t comment further on Castiel’s choice as he pushes the tape in.

The first notes crackle through the speakers, melancholic. Castiel closes his eyes to let them get _in_ , to try and analyze what humanity finds in music. It seems to be something all the humans he has met and observed share. At first, Castiel had simply set it aside as one of those customs he would never understand.

“Watcha thinking about?” Dean asks as the song goes by. A riff of guitar makes Castiel’s hair stand up on his arms and he frowns, cracking one eye open. What a strange sensation.

“Life,” he answers quite truthfully.

Dean chuckles, and the sound is as surprising as it is warming.

“Yeah? What about it?”

Castiel smiles a little, glancing sideways. Dean looks almost relaxed, one hand holding the steering wheel loosely while the other taps it in rhythm with the beat of the drums.

“I think I like it,” Castiel says quietly. He is only just realizing how true it is. “I think I like living.”

 _Too bad you won’t do it for long, then_ , whispers a small, cruel voice in his mind.

He drowns it out when Dean smiles at him. The sun is hitting his face, and a handful of freckles stand out on his skin.

“That’s good, Cas,” Dean breathes. “That’s really good.”

***

Another hour later, Dean seems to decide that they have gone far enough from the bunker. Castiel thinks they could have stopped a long time ago, but he didn’t say anything, all too happy to postpone the end of their companionable silence.

Dean abruptly turns onto a bumpy path squeezed in between two fields, and parks. They get out of the car. Castiel is knee-deep in the weeds, stomping to flatten them on the ground. Fortunately, they are green enough not to risk a wildfire. Dean joins him, a jar of holy oil in hand. Castiel flinches at the familiar bitter scent, a knee-jerk reaction. He remembers the flames surrounding him, and Dean’s face, Sam’s betrayal. Avoiding Dean’s too-knowing glances, he busies himself with pouring the oil on the ground, taking care not to step in it.

“Hey,” Dean calls out once he is finished. Castiel looks up to see him holding out something.

An angel blade.

The sun is reflecting against its handle. It glints softly in Dean’s hand and Castiel finds it hard to keep a straight face.

“Thought you might want it,” Dean says with a shrug.

Castiel puts down the jar and takes the blade, testing its weight in his palm. He feels overwhelmed as he rubs his thumb against the cool metal, hard and smooth and so painfully familiar.

“Thank you,” he says, and Dean nods, a careless gesture of the hand clashing with his soft expression.

“No problem, buddy. You ready?” he sounds nervous.

“Are you sure you don’t want to wait in the car?” Castiel asks one last time. He feels almost relieved when Dean goggles at him and barks a short burst of laughter.

“No way, I’m not leaving you alone.”

Castiel then realizes with a pang of warmth that Dean is not nervous for himself, but for Castiel. He is afraid of Jonah’s reaction to the summoning. Castiel would like to reassure him, tell him that nothing bad can happen, but he knows it would be a lie. As he intones the summoning chant, Enochian words stumbling heavily on his tongue, he prays to whomever might hear him for Dean’s safety.

When he finishes, the only sound is the distant buzz of passing cars. The only movement is the wind in the weeds. Castiel looks around, hoping to find his brother behind him. Something wells in his chest, something acidic and sharp. _You don’t even know if he’s alive_. He had refused to consider this possibility, refused to acknowledge the fact that Jonah helped him, risking his life while doing it.

“Cas…” Dean says softly, but Castiel shakes his head.

“Show yourself,” he says, turning on the spot in the hope of spotting something, _anything_. There is a tremor to his voice that he doesn’t like, but can’t control. His hands tighten around the handle of the blade. It feels alien, now, without his Grace to connect to it. “Show yourself, _now_.”

“Hi, Castiel.”

Castiel twists around, heart pounding. Jonah is standing, hands in his pockets and relaxed. He looks healthy – as healthy as his vessel allows him to look, at least. Castiel distantly hears the faint _whoosh_ of the match. The flames blaze around the angel, and his calm demeanor slips and is replaced with a rage tinged with hurt.

“Castiel, what are you doing?” Jonah asks. He doesn’t raise his voice, but Castiel hears the wrath seeping between the words. His gaze slides over the flames. He hates having to do this.

“I’m sorry, Jonah.”

Dean steps forwards, subtly attracting Jonah’s attention to him. Castiel feels a twinge of annoyance at the idea that Dean doesn’t even trust him to talk to his own brother.

“Sorry,” Dean is saying breezily. “Gotta take precautions, I’m sure you understand that.”

Jonah looks at Dean coolly, his too-pale eyes narrowing slightly in reflection.

“Dean Winchester,” he says, drawing out the syllables thoughtfully. “I've heard so much about you.”

Dean scoffs and looks ready to shoot back something sarcastic, so Castiel hastily speaks up.

“Jonah, I know about Pyriel and Muriel.”

At that Jonah freezes. Castiel watches as his jaw tightens, as his eyes look back and forth between Castiel’s face and the blade he is holding. Jonah nods slowly.

“No, you don’t,” he says, voice trembling. “You have no idea how they are. They’re trying to _recruit_ , Castiel. To form an army and use it to conquer what they consider to be rightfully theirs.”

Jonah’s vessel looks tired in a way it shouldn’t, his ashen face too expressive. Castiel understands suddenly, and the realization makes him stumble back.

“It was them. In Chicago, when you said they were looking for me. It was them.”

Jonah sighs. “Of course it was them. They’ve been onto me for more time than you think. Pyriel came to me two days after you arrived at the camp. He said he’d sensed your presence in the city, but that you had taken your precautions and he couldn’t find you.”

“My hex bag,” Castiel says, all the pieces falling together. He had acquired it during his flight from Naomi, thinking that one could never be too prudent. Pyriel must have been powerful enough to pinpoint his location without actually being able to reach him. Jonah nods.

“Exactly. I knew you were there, but I lied to them, told them I hadn’t seen you, that you must have falsely led them. At first, they believed me, but as time went by and they still didn’t have you, they grew more frustrated. Pyriel came back to me, threatened to kill me if I didn’t find you soon.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “He is misguided, Castiel. Corrupted. He wants _power_.”

Dean clears his throat loudly. Castiel glances at him in warning, but he is ignored.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Dean says, jerking his chin in Castiel’s direction. “If they’d been so eager to find Cas, why wouldn’t they have looked for him themselves?”

Jonah rolls his eyes insolently, stepping forward and stopping just short of touching the flames. “Because Pyriel and Muriel don’t _care_ about Castiel. They just used him as leverage to draw more angels to them. When it stopped working, they decided to change tactics. _Fear,_ Dean Winchester.  Of all people you know that there is nothing more powerful than fear.” He straightens, eyes blazing with power. “Now _free me_ ,” he booms, and the earth shakes with his anger. Castiel doesn’t blink. Slowly, he picks up the wet cloth that Dean has casually thrown on the ground and drops it on the flames. Soon the ring is broken and Jonah can step out of it. He does so with purpose, yanking Castiel’s collar.

“Humanity has made you arrogant, Castiel,” he hisses, ignoring Dean’s shout of alarm. Castiel blinks up at the furious angel and smiles.

“I was arrogant long before becoming human, Jonah, but I am sorry for trapping you. However, there is something we must discuss.” He sighs, Sam’s face fleeting through his mind. “Several things, in fact.”

Jonah seems to search his mind, seeking a lie or a thread of dishonesty. Finally, apparently satisfied, he lets go of Castiel and nods. “Very well. Could we please take this elsewhere? I could do with something to eat.”

Castiel can’t help it; he chuckles softly. At his side, Dean asks, “I thought angels didn’t eat?”

As they climb into the car, Castiel listens to Jonah explain in a rather irked tone that just because he doesn’t _need_ to eat, it doesn’t mean he _can’t_.  Smiling faintly, he turns up the music, drowning out their conversation and the engine.

He thinks of Heaven and its pristine sanctity, of emotionless angels and constant betrayals. He thinks of Yggdrasil and her frozen kingdom, her loneliness. The whispers of the souls she took before him.

As Dean starts singing again, the sun makes the road seem almost white, and Castiel closes his eyes against the sting of it. The glare leaves burning imprints on his retinas, like blown-out highlights on a photograph.

There isn’t anywhere else in the world he would rather be.

***

 

Jonah is a vegetarian. Castiel doesn’t know why the fact makes him want to laugh, but it does. He refrains, though, for fear of it being misinterpreted as mockery. Dean doesn’t comment, but his eyes follow Jonah’s pasta and vegetables meal with something akin to horror. Castiel elbows him in the ribs and hisses, “ _S_ _top that_.” Dean looks halfway between pissed and sheepish, which makes him seem like a moody child. Castiel ignores him.

As they start their meal, the cutlery clinking against the plates is the only sound to disturb their comfortable silence. There is a family settled not far from them, and the father keeps glancing distrustfully in their direction. Castiel tries not to let it bother him, but he can’t help it. He wants to tell the man how many times the world would have blown up if it weren’t for Dean. He wants to tell him that the man he keeps looking at like he is the scum of the Earth is, in fact, an angel of the Lord that could reduce him to cinders without even blinking. He wants to, but refrains. He knows better than to start spouting things like that in public; humans in general don’t like things they can’t understand. They are scared of what is different, scared of whomever refuses to accept their muffled version of reality.

“So,” Jonah says around a mouthful of salad. At Castiel’s disapproving grunt, he swallows quickly, shooting him a glare. “Talk to me, Castiel.”

Castiel exchanges a look with Dean. He doesn’t know what is safe to tell. Dean’s eyebrows raise slightly, questioning, and Castiel nods in silent agreement.

“Here’s the thing,” Dean says, refocusing his attention on Jonah. As he starts telling a toned-down version of the recent developments, far more efficiently than Castiel would have, he watches Jonah’s expression change from one of mild interest to rapt fascination, a strange mix of hope and disbelief. When Dean falls quiet, Jonah turns his gaze to Castiel, and the pale eyes of his vessel are filled with a reverence that has no reason to be. Castiel shifts in his seat, his abandoned meal cooling on its plate, almost untouched.

“Can I see it?” Jonah asks eventually. When Castiel extends his arm across the table to show him the ring, Jonah lets out a soft, amazed gasp. His fingers linger on the metallic band, deftly feeling the tiny sigils engraved on it. When he lets go, his eyes are brimming with tears.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Find Joshua,” Castiel replies immediately. “I have been told he knows how to use the key.”

Jonah frowns, pushing his plate further away on the table. He hums thoughtfully, rubbing his belly with one hand.

“I haven’t heard of the Guardian for years,” he says. “I can only hope he is still alive.” His gaze turns meaningful, and there is a now-familiar guilt souring the taste in Castiel’s mouth.

He tips his head. His hands are flexing a napkin restlessly. His body has been doing that more and more – betraying his emotions. Next to him, he feels Dean shift, their knees brushing under the table. He doesn’t know whether it is intentional or not, but he finds comfort in the friendly warmth.

“I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you mean,” he says eventually. Too bluntly, maybe; Dean winces. “Besides, I doubt She would have asked me to find him if he was dead.”

Jonah nods once and stands, his chair scraping the tiled floor. “I will look into it. How can I reach you?”

Dean pulls a card out of his jacket and hands it over.

“Call me,” he says. Jonah nods and starts walking towards the door. Castiel sees a quiet desperation painted all over Dean’s face, and suddenly he realizes that he hasn’t asked Jonah the most important question.

“Wait!” he calls. Jonah stills, hand on the door. Castiel stands abruptly, almost running to join him. Dean stays where he is, frozen.

“Let’s go outside,” Castiel says, taking Jonah by the elbow. The angel complies, looking puzzled. Despite the sun, the air is cold and sharp against their faces, slamming into them like an invisible wall. It plays in Castiel’s hair – it is longer than it has ever been, curling at his nape – and reddens his cheeks. They are standing face to face in the almost empty parking lot, and Castiel glances through the windows of the diner to find Dean staring at them, face hollow and drawn.

“I need your help for one more thing,” Castiel says quietly.

Jonah nods. “Of course, brother.” The new respect in his voice is unsettling. Castiel wishes he wouldn’t do that. He is still the angel who thought he could be God; he is still the angel who decimated Heaven. He feels choked up.

“Sam – Samuel Winchester. Dean’s brother. He is…sick.”

He sums up the situation tersely, and his stomach drops as Jonah’s face darkens with pity.

“Castiel,” he says, shaking his head. “I can’t fix him. It would take more than one angel to cleanse the boy.”

Castiel squints at him. He can feel his lips tremble, and knows that it has nothing to do with the cold.

“I don’t know of any other angel that would be ready to help us,” he says. His voice breaks and his jaw clenches to keep his emotions at bay.

Jonah looks at him, something like longing and compassion flickering for a second before being chased away by a wall of impassibility.

“However,” he says slowly. “I think there is something that could help him.”

With a snap of fingers, a glass vial appears in his hand. He closes his fist around it. As Castiel watches, a shudder goes through his body, and a faint scent of metal and lightning comes to Castiel’s nostrils.

Jonah hands him the vial. It is filled with a crimson liquid. It is filled with –

“Blood,” Jonah says. “The blood of an angel. It will strengthen Samuel’s body and soul. He will live, but it won’t be enough to make all the effects stop.”

Castiel stares at the tiny bottle, sickeningly warm in his palm. _I should have thought of that_ , he thinks. _I should have_.

When he looks up, Jonah has disappeared.

***

 

The first half of the ride back is mostly silent, without even the music to soften the atmosphere. The flask of blood is sitting heavy in the pocket of Castiel’s black hoodie – one that Dean bought him after being tired of lending his own clothes. He has shown the vial to Dean, has seen him pale and recoil in fear. _Sam and blood don’t get on well, Cas_. Castiel had understood that the solution hit a little close to home for Dean. He had soothed him, explained that angel blood is the very opposite of demon blood. After a while, the tension had seeped out of Dean’s shoulders.

Now, though, Dean is worryingly quiet, glancing sideways from time to time. His eyes find Castiel, clouded with unreadable thoughts. Castiel wants to ask, but contents himself waiting. He knows Dean will tell him what is bothering him when he is ready. Dean generally doesn’t react well to prying.

His patience is rewarded when Dean clears his throat, leaning against the back of the seat, looking straight ahead.

“Cas,” he says, mumbles really, barely audible over the sound of the wind hissing through the half-open window. Castiel turns to look at Dean expectantly. He seems nervous, and worry starts to makes its way through Castiel’s chest, sharply taking hold of his pulse.

“Is something the matter?” he asks, trying to stop his brain from coming up with the worst possible outcomes of this conversation. But Dean shakes his head briskly.

“God, no. Totally not. I just wanted to tell you –” He clears his throat again, too loudly for it to not be forced. “Thank you. And I’m sorry.”

Castiel is frozen in shock as the last words he expected to hear ring in his ears like a gong.

“What – what would you be sorry for?” he manages blankly.

Dean shakes his head, somehow managing to look both angry and embarrassed.

“I don’t know, man. Everything. The way I treated you – no matter how pissed I was, it wasn’t okay.”

Castiel opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. His heart is pounding now, not with worry but with how _unexpected_ and _wrong_ it feels, to have Dean apologizing to him.

“I just – man, you have no idea…” Dean says, struggling with words, his cheeks taking on an angry shade of red. “You have no idea how it was before you came. Kevin wouldn’t talk to me, Sam _couldn’t_ talk to me, and I thought you were d–”

“Pull over,” Castiel interrupts. In an effort to stop them from shaking, he clenches his hands in his lap. Dean doesn’t protest, just nods tightly and complies. It is a country road, and at this hour of the day there is hardly anyone else nearby. Castiel opens the door and slides out of the car. Now the wind feels like a blessing, anchoring him to reality. He shoves his hands into his pockets and leans against the hood of the car, waiting for Dean to join him. It takes a minute but Dean eventually does, sitting so close barely an inch separates their shoulders.

“I don’t want you to apologize to me,” Castiel finally says, keeping his eyes on the country landscape. The fields are green and shivering under the gusts of air. “The way I acted was selfish. I’ve been nothing but a coward ever since I fell.”

Dean kicks a rock, a violent jerk of his feet. “Don’t,” he says. “You’re not a coward. You’ve been an asshole alright, and I can be one, too. Hell, I’ve been an asshole my whole life.  Guess it takes one to know one.”

He whirls around, facing Castiel. His face is animated, raw, with every emotion on display, and it takes Castiel’s breath away just how _beautiful_ Dean is. “You’re not a coward, Cas. I just – I wish you would’ve talked to me, trusted me.” He closes his eyes, swallowing. “I just needed you to _need_ me.”

Everything seems to still. Castiel can’t hear anything, can’t move. His mouth works, but his throat doesn’t follow suit.

“Dean,” he says, and he doesn’t even recognize his voice, choked and heavy with wonder. Dean opens his eyes, and _there it is_ , the hope Castiel was looking for. It seems like his millennia of existence just came crashing down at his feet, for this moment when, for the first time, he understands. He straightens, steps away from the car, right in front of Dean.

“Dean, I do. Dean, you’re the only thing I’ve ever needed. You –” He shakes his head, eyes sweeping over the curve of Dean’s cheek, and this time, he doesn’t resist the urge to touch it. The skin is prickly with stubble, and Dean doesn’t jerk away from him. He doesn’t move at all, frozen in place. His eyes are wide and terrified, but he stands his ground like one goes to battle.

“Dean,” Castiel says, again, but can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. He just gathers the last remnants of his courage and crosses the distance between their mouths. It's not even a real kiss, just a barely-there brush of lips, but it resonates inside him like a wave. And when Dean lets out a wounded sound and opens up to the kiss, the feeling is worth every drop of blood he has shed, every mistake he has made.

A passing car honks loudly at them, breaking the spell, and Castiel glares at its retreating form as they part. Had he still his powers, the owner of that car would have spent the rest of his life as a duck. As it is, he can only curse it inwardly, and drink in the sight before him.

Dean is breathing too heavily for the chaste kiss they exchanged. Their foreheads are still touching, and Castiel’s hand is still cupping Dean’s cheek. Castiel has only ever kissed two other people in his life, but nothing ever felt like this. Meg was all rebellion with a tang of sulfur, somehow too consuming and somehow not _enough_. Daphne was soft lips and curves, and a feeling of _wrongness_ that he couldn’t shake.

“Okay,” Dean breathes. There is a blush fighting its way to his face and his eyes are bright. “Okay, Cas. What d’you say we get back to the bunker and get things done. And then – well.” He smiles, and it's a little twisted, a little giddy and so very much _Dean_ that Castiel can’t help smiling back. His heart feels ready to burst inside his chest.

“Yes,” he says solemnly. “I would like that.”

“Okay,” Dean repeats, eyes searching Castiel’s face. What he finds there, Castiel doesn’t know, but there is a new lightness to his smile when he breaks their embrace and turns, hopping into the car. Castiel looks at him for a second, heat pooling in his chest, purring like a satisfied cat.

As he slips back into the shotgun seat, a cloud masks the sun, greying the line of the horizon.

He tries not to find it too ominous.

***

Sam is sitting cross-legged on his bed, dressed in white pajama bottoms and a faded gray t-shirt. The outfit reminds Castiel of what he used to wear after his stay at the hospital and he shudders. His memories from that time are fuzzy at best. He thinks he can remember Meg’s soothing voice when things got too much for him to handle. He thinks he can remember Dean’s rage. In Purgatory, it was as if a veil had been lifted. The comfortable blur of insanity had disappeared and there was nothing left but guilt and self-loathing.

“I – I don’t know if it’s a good idea, Dean,” Sam says. He looks young, suddenly, staring up at the vial with wide eyes. His skin is even paler than usual, making the dark smudges left by insomnia stand out starkly.

Dean smiles, but it looks unsure, a little nervous. “It’s okay, Sammy. I swear it is.” He shoves the vial in Sam’s hand and his smile slips from his face. “Castiel told me there was no way it would do the same stuff as the demon blood. Right?” he says, turning to Castiel.

“Right,” Castiel nods. “Your addiction to demon blood is related to the – treatment you were submitted to during your childhood. Angel blood will be…uncomfortable at first, but it can help you.” He looks at his feet. “I never thought of it before. I’m sorry.”

Dean claps him on the back, shaking his head. “Dude, no.” He doesn’t add anything, his eyes focused on Sam, who has opened the vial and is sniffing tentatively. He winces, but his face relaxes minutely.

“It doesn’t smell the same,” he says, relief clear in his voice. “It doesn’t smell like demon blood.”

 Castiel smiles. “That’s because it isn’t.”

Sam looks at him, eyes serious, and nods. Turning his gaze back to Dean, he tips the vial to his lips and mumbles, “Cheers,” before gulping it down in one go. Dean tenses, all the fake confidence slipping away, replaced by something more anxious. On the bed, Sam heaves and for a split second, Castiel thinks he will throw up the blood before it can act. However, after swallowing a few times, his toes curling as a shiver goes through his body, Sam grimaces.

“’m okay,” he rasps, eyes screwed shut. “I’m okay.” His upper lip curls in disgust. “Gee. I used to _drink_ that shit.”

Dean snorts, and a flicker of reluctant amusement crosses his face.

“How d’ya feel?” he asks, leaning in to peer at Sam’s face as if expecting some kind of instant change. Castiel refrains from telling him that it might take longer than that. He just stands quietly next to the brothers, fidgeting with the ring around his finger.

“Huh. Honestly? Like I’m gonna hurl.  And – kinda sleepy, too,” Sam mumbles, opening his eyes at last to reveal his reddened sclera. Dean glances at Castiel, seeking reassurance. Castiel shrugs helplessly. He has never witnessed the effects of angel blood consumption on a human before.

Sam mumbles some more and leans back against the bed, curling in on himself. Dean steps back, face pale, and on a whim Castiel catches his hand, rubbing the pad of his thumb against the skin of Dean’s knuckles. Dean tenses, looks down at their entwined fingers. Only Sam’s quiet, even breathing disrupts the sudden silence.

Then Dean smiles tentatively and squeezes his hand before letting go, putting a finger in front of his mouth.

They slink out of the room together, following the trail of Charlie’s laughter.

***

Two hours later, Castiel is slumped on the sofa. The TV is on, but he would be utterly incapable of telling what is on. In fact, he is watching Dean. Dean, who is currently reading a book with his feet propped up on the desk, a tiny smirk curling the corner of his lips. Kevin is in the kitchen with his mother, helping her prepare dinner. The last time Castiel checked, Sam was still asleep.

And Castiel feels _relaxed_ in a new way, listening to the quiet life of his family. He is somewhat lethargic, huddled in a blanket, feet tucked under a cushion.

The sofa dips and Castiel turns his head to be greeted by Charlie’s smile.

“Wassup?” she sighs, eyeing his blanket with envy. He wordlessly pulls out a corner for her to slide closer to him. She does so after a moment's hesitation.

“How are you?” Castiel asks, somewhat awkwardly. He is still not schooled in the art of making small talk, but he tries. Charlie hums thoughtfully.

“Well, there’s another apocalypse looming over us. I’m single.” She smiles and nods. “I’m peachy!”

Castiel nods. “That was sarcasm.”

She looks at him for a long moment, then shrugs. “Not really. I’m kind of used to it by now.”

Castiel turns his gaze back to Dean. There is a question niggling at the back of his mind, and he gives in to it after a beat.

“How did you meet them?”

Charlie snorts. “Long story.”

Dean is frowning at them over his book, expression suspicious. Castiel smiles at him. He does it more often, now. These occasions to feel content are too rare not to be taken.

“I have time,” he offers eventually, resting his chin onto his palm.

Charlie laughs. It is a nice sound.

“Yeah, I guess so. Well, you see, it all began when I was at work and my boss called me. I thought I was going to get into real trouble, ‘cause…”

Castiel listens to Charlie's and the Winchesters’ tribulations. Dean has given up all pretense of not eavesdropping, and interrupts her from time to time to add an anecdote.

For a suspended moment, everything is perfect.

***

# Part Eleven

Never has a door looked so menacing to Castiel.

He is standing in front of Dean’s bedroom, hands awkwardly shoved in his pockets as he tries to talk himself into knocking. _He kissed me back_ , he thinks decisively. He can’t be unwelcome, can he?

He has a vague feeling that his turmoil might be something of an overreaction, especially in the light of the events threatening them, but he can’t help the way his palms feel sweaty and gross, the way his heart pounds as he lifts his hand slowly.

That is, until the door opens wide to reveal a very bewildered Dean blinking at him. There is a moment of awkwardness, both of them staring silently at each other. Then, Dean grins and tugs him into the room, slamming the door shut behind them. 

Castiel kisses Dean like he's drowning. He learns Dean's mouth, quick and careful. Learns its taste under his tongue, framing his face with both hands to prevent him from shying away. Dean kisses back with an eagerness that makes Castiel’s insides twist as the thought strikes him that this will be the only time they can do this. To be this for each other. To be friends, to be each other’s lifelines, to bask in the sweetness of their newborn intimacy. He pulls back sharply, drawing a startled groan out of Dean’s mouth.

“Cas, wha–” Dean says, but his voice trails off when Castiel’s hands fumble with the buttons of his own shirt. He feels desperate, desperate for more, desperate for skin. He wants _everything_. Suddenly, knowing what Dean looks like under those layers of clothes and rugged sarcasm feels like the only thing that matters. Dean’s look of puzzlement is quickly replaced by a burst of lust as he bats Castiel’s hands away and begin to work efficiently on the buttons. The shirt falls at their feet and Castiel tugs impatiently at the bottom of Dean’s t-shirt. Dean turns pliant, lifts his arms to allow Castiel to pull it off.

And then they’re kissing again, Castiel’s hands trailing along Dean’s sides. The skin there is soft and unmarked, and he revels in the shudders his touch earns. He feels the strong muscles, groans softly when Dean’s fingers trace his spine. The kisses deepen, alight with intent. It is messy and breathless and Dean’s nails scrape at his back. It is _perfect_. Without pulling away, he gives Dean’s chest a gentle push, until he seems to understand what Castiel wants and lets himself be guided through the room, eyes fixed on Castiel’s. Something about that tugs at Castiel’s memory. The sheer trust on Dean’s face, the easiness with which he allows Castiel to move him, without fearing to trip and fall. It reminds him of the day his life changed forever, the day he sliced his way through Hell, brimming with celestial intent. _Save the Righteous Man. Save Dean Winchester._

But this Dean couldn’t be more different from the piteous, broken, righteous thing he pulled out of the pit. This Dean doesn’t look at him with fear and incomprehension. This Dean isn’t even the one who took him in a month ago, closed off and hurt. This is someone new and at the same time familiar.

The backs of Dean’s knees hit the bed and he smiles, barely a hitch of trepidation to his breath as he sits slowly, knees open for Castiel to stand in the space between them. Castiel mouths at the sharp line of his jaw, the wrinkle of his brow. His hand finds the staccato of Dean’s heartbeat, quick and thundering. He frowns and leans back just a little to get a clearer view of Dean’s face.

“Are you alright?” he asks in concern. Dean nods and bites his lower lip.

“Yeah,” Dean says, voice scratchy. “I just – Cas, I’m kinda new to all this…” His hand makes a vague gesture. “Uh. Y’know what I mean.”

Castiel huffs out a laugh on Dean’s shoulder. The skin here is smooth, smells like soap and the barest hint of sweat, and he can’t resist nipping at it. Dean’s breath hitches.

“I think you’ll find that I lack a frame of reference when it comes to this.” He pushes gently against Dean’s chest. At first, there is a resistance, before Dean lets himself lie down. His hand tugs at Castiel’s wrist until he follows suit, kneeling between Dean’s bent legs and bracing himself with his arms on each side of Dean’s head. For a beat, they just stare at each other, unsure of where to go next. Then Dean rolls his eyes and lifts his head to crash their mouths back together, drawing a muffled groan from Castiel’s throat. Then his words seem to make their way through Dean’s mind and he breaks the kiss, mouth wet and half-open. It is ridiculously attractive.

“Are you tellin’ me you’re still a virgin, Cas?”

Castiel feels a blush worm its way to his cheeks. He looks away from Dean’s frowning face, to their joined hands on the bed and nods tightly.

“I am.”

Dean lets out a small exhale, something careful and controlled that sounds like _huh_. Castiel tentatively looks back at him. His eyes are wide with a blast of nervousness far more consequent than before.

“But you were married. And with Meg…I thought…” Castiel shakes his head, cutting him off.

“Daphne and I, we…weren’t like that. I don’t think she was interested in anything sexual.” He shrugs. “As for Meg…” he closes his eyes, a flash of a smirking, round face crossing his mind. Dean squeezes his hand. “We never had the occasion,” Castiel admits eventually. The turn of conversation has somewhat quelled his previous frenzy and he scowls, breathing in deeply.

“Cas – I…are you sure? You should…do this with someone who’d make it good. I’m pretty sure I – _mph.”_ Castiel interrupts him with a kiss. It draws in, becomes tender. An exploration.

“Dean,” he whispers, his mouth trailing feather-light kisses down Dean’s chin and neck. The noise Dean makes sounds suspiciously like a moan. “I want to do this with you. I don’t want to do this with someone who would 'make it good'. I want to do this with someone I love.”

His ears ring with his own heartbeat at the admission, and the way Dean tenses under him barely lasts a second, but it feels like an eternity. Then Dean lets out a wounded, desperate noise and hisses, “ _Fuck_ ”. Before Castiel knows it, he is on his back, gasping as Dean’s lips suck the tender skin of his neck. He manages to stutter Dean’s name when their hips connect and he realizes they are both painfully hard.

“Sh-shit,” he mumbles, eyes fluttering closed. Dean chuckles. He's out of breath too.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Okay, I’m…can I?” he asks, fingers playing with the waistband of Castiel’s jeans. They dip under for a second and Castiel nods jerkily, not trusting his voice. His feels like an elastic ready to snap, like a dam ready to crumble. He wiggles to help Dean get his pants and socks off and the cold air of the bedroom makes him shudder. Dean’s jeans quickly join Castiel’s on the floor. He is hovering above Castiel, braced on one arm, an uncertain expression on his face.

“Dean?” Castiel says softly. Dean tries to smile but it looks more like a nervous grimace. “You know we don’t have to do this.”

In answer, Dean nods, his smile softening. He kisses Castiel lightly on the lips. “I know,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “But I want to. I just…want it to be good for you.”

Castiel hooks his arm around Dean’s waist, pulling him closer until they are gasping for air, flush against each other, their cocks touching through the frustrating layers of their underwear. Dean muffles a groan against Castiel’s chest, eyes screwed shut.

“It will be good,” Castiel says. He feels light-headed with the constant pressure, and Dean’s eyes are wide and awed and _oh_ so beautiful. His chest is flushing red to match his face, and when he looks down his gaze is feverish. Castiel would like to keep him like this forever. His fingers trail along Dean’s spine, finding the waistband of his boxers. Dean nods frantically, muttering something incoherent. The pressure increases as his arm moves, ending up wrapped around Castiel’s shoulders, holding on so tight it almost hurts. After a second, there is nothing between them but a slight hesitation, a muttered _“you sure?_ ” and then Castiel can’t think at all. He doesn’t even have the heart to be surprised when Dean fumbles blindly in his nightstand and comes back with a bottle of lube. He can only groan when a hand wraps around them both and starts stroking. He arches, eyes closed. Loses himself in the sensation of Dean’s lips on his jaw, on his cheek, on his neck, Dean’s hand stroking his cock just this side of too fast and their teeth clacking painfully with the clumsiness of their kisses. He reaches down, covering Dean’s hand with his own and slowing his movements down.

It doesn’t take long before Dean isn’t even coherent enough to kiss him, his lips slack against Castiel’s cheek. “Oh, fuck, _Cas_ ,” he groans, and a sudden pang of _something_ bursts into Castiel’s groin.

“Say my name,” he pleads. “Say my name again.” Their chests are slick with sweat and his fingers slip over Dean’s side, scrambling for purchase.

“Cas,” Dean breathes roughly against his skin before nipping at it. “ _Castiel_.”

He can’t help closing his eyes, head thrown back and teeth gritted when a hot trail follows along his spine and it’s _too much_ , it’s too much and yet not enough. He comes with a shudder, pulsing against Dean, one hand gripping his arm in an ironical mirror of the very first time he touched him. Dean follows him barely a second after, and he does so silently,eyes focused on Castiel’s face. There are beads of sweat on his forehead and the hair at his temples is soaked with it. He looks beautifully delirious and as he slumps against him, Castiel lets out a contented sigh. He feels sticky and disgusting, and groans when Dean uses his discarded boxers to wipe up the mess. He half-heartedly considers the idea of a shower, but his attempt at moving has Dean tightening his hold.

“Stay,” he says, and Castiel slumps back on the bed, eyelids falling shut as Dean covers them with the quilt.

 _I wish I could_ , he thinks. It feels good to allow himself to fall asleep, Dean’s arms a warm anchor around him. 

_TBC_


	6. Chapter 6

 

# Part Twelve

When Castiel wakes up, Dean is still asleep next to him, breathing softly into the nape of his neck, arms secured around his waist. For some reason, the first thing he feels is a wave of sheer relief that he was allowed this. He'd half-expected something awful to happen, some trick of fate, just enough for him to remember all the reasons why he shouldn’t have the right to be happy. He blinks the sleepiness away, snuggling closer to Dean just for a second. Around them, the bunker is silent, save for the occasional creaking of the hardwood floors.

He would like to stay like this forever, but his bladder calls him to order, reminding him of the frustrating human things he needs to deal with. Right now, nothing would please him more than to take a hot shower and drink a gallon of coffee. He tries to be as discreet as possible, slipping out of Dean’s hold slowly, but as he sits up on the bed, Dean shifts and mutters “Cas?”

His voice is rough with sleep, and when Castiel turns to look at him, he is greeted with two hazy green eyes blinking at him owlishly, barely distinguishable in the darkness. Castiel smiles. His heart feels huge in his chest, filled with all the things he has held back for too long. He leans and kisses Dean on the cheek. The simple fact that he is _allowed_ to do that now is almost too much for him to handle.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispers. “It’s still early.”

Dean nods, eyelids already slipping shut. When Castiel leaves the safe warmth of the quilt, he grumbles slurred words, face burrowed into his pillow. Barely two seconds later, his breathing is deep and even.

Castiel shudders as he takes a wobbly step into the room. He's still naked, and the temperature is cool enough to make goose bumps erupt on his arms. He quickly finds his discarded underwear and slips on a t-shirt. As an afterthought, he eyes Dean’s gray robe and quickly grabs it before making his way out of the room.

The shower is blissful, ridding him of the thin layer of dried sweat and come coating his skin. As he looks at his reflection in the mirror, jumping into his jeans and a black shirt, he notices something that has him frowning and tipping his head back to get a better look.

“Oh,” he breathes when his position exposes the red expanse of skin. He remembers Dean’s mouth here the night before, insistent and almost painful. Remembers having bared his neck to it.  His fingertips are still wrinkled and sensitive from the hot water, and he trails them over the mark, an odd emotion twisting his stomach. It feels _sincere_ , this proof of what happened. So very carnal, too, the phantom memory of Dean’s hands on him, the heat of two bodies clashing and trying to blend together. He shrugs on his hoodie, hoping that no one will notice it.

It is peculiar to see the bunker so empty and silent. As he crosses the den, he can see Charlie’s red hair buried under a blanket. She is breathing softly, curled in on herself, and the affection that washes over Castiel is sudden and overwhelming.

He tiptoes out of the room. Even Ruth is still asleep on her pile of old sheets, although she cracks an eye open and yawns when he bypasses her to head into the kitchen. A glance at the clock informs him that it is only six in the morning.

The coffeepot gurgles awake and soon the bitter smell lightens Castiel’s mood, his palms warm around the mug. The silence is not eerie. It is not disturbing, as he would have expected in such an old building. Rather, it is like the entire place is under a spell.

The minutes trickle slowly, marked by the ticking of the old clock. Castiel feels warm and contented, thumbing through a book he found on the table. The cover reads _Naked Lunch_ , and the writing is somewhat disjointed.

“Like it?”

He is too relaxed to startle at Dean’s voice. Setting the book down, he looks up and smiles at Dean’s disheveled state. Leaning against the wall, expression sated and hair mussed, he looks like a contented cat.

“Not really,” Castiel admits truthfully. Dean chuckles and moves away from the wall, his movements slow and serene. As he bypasses Castiel to reach the coffeepot, his fingers trail along the nape of his neck. Castiel shivers slightly at the unexpected contact. It answers his fears as to whether Dean would acknowledge what happened between them. His hand finds the mark on his neck, rubbing it slightly.

“Are you okay?” Castiel asks once Dean has sat next to him. He winces at the awkwardness of the question when Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. Then, a fond smile spreads on his face, his eyes lighter than ever.

“Yeah,” he says. “You?”

Castiel thinks about it for a second and nods.

“Good,” Dean says. His palm covers Castiel’s hand, thumb slipping under it in a reassuring hold. They don’t talk after that, content to sit quietly, sipping their coffee and stealing glances at each other.

When Charlie stumbles into the kitchen, muttering about how the couch is lumpy and her back is killing her, Castiel tenses and tries to get his hand back. Dean just squeezes it and frowns, a question in his eyes. Charlie slumps in the chair opposite them, bleary-eyed. Her hair is in disarray and her face is closed off. She doesn’t so much as twitch in their direction, so Castiel decides it is for the best that he doesn’t try and talk to her. He, too, suffers from this strange morning mood, this state where everything and everyone is obnoxious. He has also developed a severe addiction to coffee, though he suspects that is due to his excessive consumption of the beverage when he was making his way through all the Biggerson's in the country.

Charlie is still silent, downing her coffee at a worrying pace. It isn’t until her third cup that she slowly raises her head, looking up from their joined hands to their faces, arching an eyebrow slowly. Castiel has to resist the urge to sweep his fingers out of Dean’s hold. He is fairly certain he is overreacting, but his heart is pounding and his mouth dry. There is a significance to what Dean is doing, one he isn’t sure he is quite ready for. 

“Really?” Charlie asks, voice hoarse with sleep. Castiel feels more than he sees Dean’s shrug. Charlie frowns, something very close to a pout twisting her mouth. She doesn’t say anything else, but Castiel feels Dean relax against his shoulder and his hand is suddenly freed from its hold. He glances sideways to find Dean smiling, a gentle thing that takes his breath away. He looks happy, and it feels like all Castiel ever wanted. Maybe it is selfish, and will make leaving all the more painful, but he can’t deny himself this, not when he has spent so many years longing for this light in Dean’s eyes, for this shard of innocence that was so deeply buried by Hell, by Purgatory, by all the things Dean has lost.

Castiel smiles back and tries to forget the clench of the ring around his finger.

Sam emerges from his bedroom half an hour later, when Castiel comes back from walking Ruth. The crude marks around his eyes have faded a little, as have the tense lines of his forehead. When Castiel asks him how he is, he smiles and says he has never felt better. It is probably a lie – Sam is not alright, not by a long shot. It will take more time for his organism to recover from its months of starvation and sleep deprivation. Castiel lets it slide, for he knows that the angel blood has lifted from Sam’s shoulders the weight of his imminent death. Even Crowley looks surprised at the change, and it takes a lot to pull him out of his apathy these days. Castiel had never thought that he would feel anything other than loathing for the demon, but now even this has faded into an annoyance tinged with pity. Crowley is only the shadow of what he once was, an abomination even to his own kind, forced to seek shelter in the home of those he once despised. There is something desperate and compulsive in the way he spends his days nursing bottles of scotch and thumbing through books he has no interest in whatsoever. Castiel knows what it is to seek oblivion. He has too little time left to waste it on something as tiresome and counterproductive as hatred, especially towards something so pathetic and helpless.

He watches Dean busy himself in front of the stove, the smell of eggs and toast floating in the air. Sam eats with gusto, oblivious to the way Dean looks ready to cry in relief. Kevin and Linda are sitting close by, quietly arguing about one thing or another. For the first time since Castiel got here, they look like a _normal_ family. Despite the threat the world is facing, they've managed to hold on to this tiny thread of hope and wrap it around themselves like a blanket, a respite in the midst of their broken lives.

“You look sad,” Charlie says as she leans against the wall next to him. Castiel tries to smile and shakes his head.

“I’m not.” Charlie peers at him, and Castiel can see that she doesn’t believe him, but she doesn’t insist. Instead, she jerks her chin towards Dean and Sam.

“S’weird, isn’t it?”

Castiel frowns, trying to find something wrong with the picture made by the two Winchesters, Dean snorting with laughter at something Sam has said.

“What is?” he asks when he fails. Charlie gives a half-shrug and rubs at the side of her nose thoughtfully.

“Seeing them like that. I always thought they didn’t _do_ domestic. They’re so…I don’t know. Hardened. Does that make sense?”

It does, actually. Charlie hasn’t the insight into Dean’s and Sam’s lives Castiel has, and thus finds their relaxed states as a bizarre sort of incongruity, something that shouldn’t be. Castiel knows, however, that living the life they have didn’t make them forget that other people – _normal_ people – exist. If anything, it has fed a craving in both their souls, something no amount of alcohol, cheap sex or denial could ever fill. Sam, of course, for all his pretending, has never lost his dreams of an ‘apple-pie life’, as he likes to call it. The very evidence is before their eyes, in the way Sam has molded himself into the bunker, has dug his place in the history of the Men of Letters. As for Dean, well. Suffice to say that Castiel hasn’t seen him drink anything stronger than beer during his stay, even when Sam’s health was at its lowest.

“I think it’s a good look on them,” Castiel says eventually, and he is graced with a slow smile from Charlie, her eyes sparkling with mirth.

“You would, wouldn’t you?” she says. The implication is not lost on Castiel, but he refuses to take the bait, giving her the stink-eye until she chuckles and scurries away, leaving behind a flowery scent and the puzzling realization that Castiel has _made a friend._ He doesn’t know how it happened, but there is a human saying about a gift horse that he isn’t about to ignore.

The day goes by, and it's easy to bask in the sweetness of the moment. Castiel finds himself longing for Dean’s touch, but he knows better than to try it in front of everybody. Charlie was one thing, and for all her talkativeness, she hasn’t uttered a word as to what she saw that morning. However Castiel is not ready to expose something so new and so frail to prying eyes. He feels possessive, wants to lock this secret in his heart with his bare hands. It is a frightening sensation, to hold such power over someone. To see what they look like in climax, to kiss away their moans. It is almost more intoxicating than flying. More precious, maybe.

Ephemeral.

***

 

 _I keep hoping for a miracle_ , he writes. He has heard Sam going to bed, and the voices of Charlie and Linda have quieted. It must be late, but Castiel dreads the moment when he will slip under his sheets, alone. He feels foolish for it, but in the loneliness of his room, he can at least allow himself that.

 _I should know better by now. I want you to know that I would stay with you, if I had the choice. But I don’t have it. I need to keep you and your brother safe._ His room, once again, seem cramped and empty at the same time. For a second, he looks up at the walls. He craves something, something he can’t name.

_Humanity is confusing. How do you avoid drowning?_

_I believe I am forgetting what it was like to be an angel. With each day, I will become more human. One morning the memory of my Grace will only be something vague and faded, like the dried flowers I once found between the pages of a book._

There is a knock on his door, the sound sharp in the silence. Castiel closes the journal slowly and sets it on his lap.

“Come in,” he says, putting his fountain pen on the nightstand. The door cracks open, Dean’s head appearing. He looks awkward as he steps into the room, rubbing his hands together.

“Still up?” he half-whispers, eyeing Castiel’s journal.

“Obviously,” Castiel sighs, rubbing at his forehead tiredly. Dean gives him an odd look, a flash of worry crossing his face. He sits next to Castiel, leaving an appropriate distance between them.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “You okay?”

Castiel looks up at him, and for one ridiculous second, he wants to tell Dean everything. To apologize for the choice he made.

“I’m fine,” is what he says instead. His voice sounds hollow, even to his own ears. Dean’s eyes flicker from his face to the journal, and Castiel’s hands clench reflexively around it.

“You can’t read it yet,” he blurts out. His brain catches up at the same time as Dean’s, and he winces at Dean’s surprised look.

“Yet?” he asks, tone cautious and a little suspicious. He leans towards Castiel ever so slightly.

“I –” Castiel attempts. He closes his eyes briefly. Dean must be hearing his heartbeat, it is so loud to his own ears. “It’s for you. But you can’t read it yet,” he repeats.

Dean’s expression softens, a smile tugging at his lips. “Okay,” he says, and Castiel hastens to hide the journal in the nightstand drawer. _It wasn’t a lie_ , he tries to tell himself. He is almost nauseous with panic, swallowing down sour saliva.

“Well,” Dean says after a while. He sounds a little disappointed. “I guess I should go.”

Castiel nods without looking up at him. The bed dips when Dean stands, and _no_. Castiel can’t stay alone in here, in this cold room with only his thoughts to keep him company. His hand shoots up, grabbing Dean’s sleeve. He blinks up at Dean’s face, haloed in the light of the bedside lamp.

“I want to be with you,” he says. His voice is choked off and ugly. The concern flits back to Dean’s face as quickly as it had left. Castiel tries to keep his expression emotionless as he stands up to face Dean, his breathing shallow. Dean studies his face for what feels like an eternity before nodding and leading him out of his room. As soon as he has passed the door, Castiel finds it easier to breathe freely, focused on the way Dean’s hand is holding his wrist in a loose grip.

They get to Dean’s room without a word and Castiel strips out of his jeans as soon as Dean has disappeared into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He sighs, folding the pants neatly on the back of a chair. Never has a bed looked so appealing to him, and he wastes no time before lying on his side, a hand tucked under his ear. He draws his knees up and waits, shivering. There is an empty feeling inside his chest, like a black hole threatening to swallow him whole if he doesn’t pay attention. It doesn’t recede when he closes his eyes. On the contrary, it seems like the darkness closes in on him, clawing at his mind when he isn’t looking.

The lamps clicks off and the bed shifts under Dean’s weight when he slides behind him, warm and alive against Castiel’s back. There is a light kiss at Castiel’s nape, an arm over his waist and a hand splayed on his belly. Castiel sighs again, trying to relax his knotted muscles.

There are no words exchanged as Dean’s breathing evens out. Castiel stays awake for a long time, his thoughts a messy turmoil.

 _This is the last time_. He doesn’t know why it comes to him, why now, when he should feel safe and content.

 _This is the last time I get to do this_.

He drifts off to sleep, fingers clenched tightly around Dean’s.

***

# Part Thirteen

A shrill sound pierces the silence and Castiel groans, tugging the quilt over his head to try and shield his ears. It doesn’t work. He turns towards Dean’s unmoving form beside him, and pokes him in the shoulder, hard. The effect is immediate and Dean sits up on the bed with a gasp. The phone’s screen barely diffuses enough light for Castiel to see his outline in the darkness. He closes his eyes again.

“Phone,” he mutters into his pillow. “Answer it or turn it off.”

Dean huffs a curse, but complies. Castiel rolls over, ignoring Dean’s snapped “Hello”. He can faintly make out a male voice babbling loudly on the other end.

“ _What_?” Dean says, and the sudden clarity of his voice snaps Castiel out of his lethargy. He tries to get himself into a sitting position, legs tangling in the quilt. “Dude, slow the fuck down. I didn’t get a single word of what you said.”

There is a silence, and Castiel takes the opportunity to turn on the light. Dean’s face is agitated and his frown doesn’t do anything to settle Castiel’s nerves.

“Wait,” Dean says. “Who the hell is _Nora_?” And Castiel stops breathing. He doesn’t think about it. He tears the phone from Dean’s hands, ignoring his yelp of protest.

“Jonah?” he asks hurriedly. He hears a quiet breath of relief in the phone.

“ _Castiel, I’m sorry, I couldn’t do anything.”_

Castiel’s heartbeat is threatening to crack his ribs. He lays a hand flat against his chest, trying to keep a hold on it.

“What happened,” he says.

“ _She’s taken us, Castiel. She was going to kill her. I had to tell her –”_ There is a voice in the background. It’s a woman’s voice. Jonah gasps and _yells_ , a noise of pure pain. Castiel heaves in sympathy, bile rising in the back of his throat.

“Jonah?” he asks, eyes closed against the sting of the tears. The woman who answers is unfamiliar, but her voice holds something terrifying.

“ _I’m afraid your friend is unavailable, sweetheart_ ,” she purrs in his ear, and Castiel can’t help the shudder that goes down his spine.

“Who are you?” he asks. “What do you want from me?”

“ _Ah, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for answers.”_ There is another yell, further away, and Castiel presses his hand against his mouth to hold back a sob when he recognizes Nora's voice.

“Please,” he says, and it comes out almost as a shout. “Please don’t hurt them.”

The woman laughs. It is not a nice sound – shrill and twisted like a broken doll.

“ _Begging already, angel? We haven’t even made it to the good part yet_.”

Castiel takes a deep breath. His fingers are clenched so hard around the phone that they _hurt_ , and somehow it is this sensation that grounds him in reality, that holds him back from throwing the phone against the wall.

“What do you want?” he asks, and his voice is surprisingly even. The woman chuckles again and Castiel grinds his teeth.

“ _What do I want? Well, you, sweetheart._ ” The words she says after that fail Castiel’s comprehension until he realizes they are an address. She is giving him her location and she wants him to walk into the lion’s den.

“ _Be there in three hours. If you’re not, well_ …” she trails off and Nora screams again. The line goes dead.

There is a whimper stuck in Castiel’s throat and he stares into the distance, struggling to hold it back.

“Cas?” Dean says, and a hand touches his shoulder. Castiel shrugs it off and hops out of the bed, feverishly looking for his clothes.

“I – I have to go,” he says blankly. “I have to go. I –” his voice breaks and he shakes his head, pulling on his jeans. His fingers tremble too much to button his shirt, and he growls in frustration at his own clumsiness.

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean snaps. “What the hell is happening?” He is getting dressed too, Castiel notices idly.

“She wants me. I have to go.”

“Who’s _she_?” Dean presses, laying a hand on Castiel’s chest to prevent him from opening the door.

“I DON’T KNOW!” Castiel yells, pushing Dean so hard he stumbles back, a stricken expression on his face. “All I know is that she has my friends and I’m not – I can’t.”

Dean is pale, but the set of his jaw is hard and stubborn.

“Okay. And where d’you think you’re going all by yourself, big boy? You can’t even drive!”

Castiel stares at him. There is a hollowness in his chest, a nervous trembling to his whole body. It gives him the same sensation of power that Grace once did, makes him want to punch a wall and yell his anger.

“Are you trying to tell me I shouldn’t go?” he asks, voice shaky. Dean rolls his eyes and opens the door, gesturing for Castiel to follow him. He does, and is not surprised to see the lights on and everybody up, staring at them as they walk in. Sam’s arms are crossed and his face closed off and Charlie looks sleepy, but concerned. Kevin and Linda are hovering awkwardly in a corner and even Crowley looks mildly curious. He breaks the silence first.

“Was that a lover’s spat or should we be worried?” he asks. He is wearing green pajamas and the sight would be comical if Castiel didn’t feel like he’s going to empty his stomach at their feet.

“We’ve gotta go,” Dean snaps.

Sam nods. He doesn’t look surprised and Castiel notices for the first time that he and Charlie are both fully clothed.

“We’re coming with you,” she says confidently, tightening her multicolored shirt around her. Dean takes one look at her and nods tightly, jerking his chin in the direction of the stairs. Castiel can hear Sam giving Linda and Kevin instructions in the eventuality of something happening to them and he feels his blood turn ice-cold as he catches up with Dean.

“We can’t let them come,” he hisses. “It’s too dangerous.”

Dean glances at him.

“You wanna be the one to tell them that, Cas? I’m sure it'll go well.”

Castiel shakes his head stiffly, glancing over his shoulder in time to see Charlie crack her knuckles and shoot him a dark look. He swallows and looks away. There is a prickling behind his eyelids that he doesn’t like. He hates the idea of dragging his friends down with him, of seeing them risk their lives for him, but they don’t have the time to stop and talk about it.

“Alright,” he says faintly, following Dean up the stairs and out of the Bunker. Sam, at least, looks ready and vigorous as he gestures for Castiel to take the shotgun seat. Castiel inclines his head gratefully and complies while the two brothers gather around the trunk to check on their weapons. Everything is dark and the cold halo of Dean’s flashlight sweeps over his window. Castiel shivers, his body protesting the lack of sleep and the sudden burst of adrenaline. His hand is shaking when it comes down to touch the ring reflexively. He wipes the condensation off the window, gulping down the foul taste in his mouth.

Dean shoves himself into the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind him. Charlie is already in the back, and soon she is joined by Sam who awkwardly folds his giant limbs in the backseat.

“Where to?” Dean asks. Castiel hadn’t seen him like this in weeks, jaw clenched and fingers tight around the steering wheel. He can’t say he's missed it. He rattles off the address the woman gave him. It’s in Wichita, Kansas, and Dean hurtles off as soon as the words leave Castiel’s mouth. They are silent for a minute, Castiel’s hands clenched on either side of his seat, until Sam clears his throat and leans into the space between their heads.

“So, care to fill us in, Cas? What’s happening?”

Castiel takes a shaky breath, glancing at Dean. He is rewarded with what would probably be a reassuring smile if Dean’s face didn’t look carved in stone. As it is, it looks more like a grimace. Dean’s eyes are anxious, blinking rapidly against the glare of a passing car’s headlights.

As Castiel sums up the situation, he keeps stealing glances sideways, fingers itching to reach over and squeeze Dean’s knee, to beg him not to come, not to put his life at stake once more. They are driving fast, probably faster than is advisable, but he can’t find it in himself to tell Dean to slow down, not when the phantom screams of Jonah and Nora still echo in his ears.

“And you don’t have any idea who she was?” Sam asks when he falls quiet. Castiel shakes his head.

“I didn’t recognize her voice.”

A glance in the rearview mirror shows him Charlie, tight-lipped and pale, playing nervously with a strand of red hair. Castiel tries to catch her gaze and, failing, lets out a sigh.

“Charlie, are you certain you want to come?” He can’t ask this to Sam or Dean, knows that they don’t make it a habit to stand on the sidelines, but Charlie has a life of her own, one that isn't dedicated to killing monsters and saving people. She has a job, maybe friends. But the look he gets in answer is burning and confident.

“Dude,” she says vehemently, “I broke into Dick Roman’s office. I got thrown into a window by a ghost. I got attacked by a _djinn_ , I fought weird vampire-zombies and I can shoot like the best of ‘em. Ask anyone.”

 _Anyone_ turns out to be Dean, whose smile is a little more genuine, a comforting twist of his lips. Charlie offers a smile of her own.

“Alright,” Castiel placates. He is aware that his reluctance may seem offensive, patronizing even, but he can’t help the sinking feeling in his gut that this little escapade might be their last. When he lets his eyelids fall shut, all he can see are the dead bodies of his friends. The car veers off brusquely and he gasps, straightening in his seat. Dean’s driving makes his stomach churn.

“What time is it?” he asks. Peering through the window, he can see the horizon graying around the edges, taking on a washed-out tinge that announces another cloudy day.

“Five,” Charlie answers. She has her cellphone in hand, trailing her fingers over the touch screen. A frown is marring her forehead and her upper lip keeps twitching. Castiel twists around and lets out a questioning sound.

“Guys,” she says hysterically after a second. Sam shifts next to her, peering over her shoulder, “I think we have a problem.”

Dean slams on the brakes and pulls over to the side of the road, swearing when a truck avoids them narrowly, honking furiously as it disappears into the distance. Castiel’s stomach feels like it is going to jump straight out of his body.

“Charlie, what the hell?” Dean bellows. Charlie has the good grace to look mildly ashamed, but shakes her cellphone in front of their noses.

“Guys, the address that chick gave Cas? It’s a hotel.”

At first, Castiel just stares blankly at her, failing to understand how the information is relevant. Then, his brain catches up. _Hotel_ means _civilians caught in the crossfire_. Dean punches the steering wheel.

“Damn it!” he yells, but starts the car nonetheless. After that, the tension in the car has upped by a notch and nobody dares break the silence.

***

 

True to Charlie’s word, when Dean stops the car, they are a block away from a hotel in the periphery of the city. They all get out; Dean opens the trunk and hands him a gun and the angel blade. Castiel takes them gratefully.

For a brief moment, everything is still. Castiel is staring straight ahead, jaw clenched so hard his face is hurting.

“I should go,” he says when the pressure becomes unbearable.

“Cas…” Dean says. When Castiel turns to look at him, his face is pale and his features drawn with worry.

“Dean, you know as well as I do that you have to back me up. You need a plan, and for that, you need to know what to expect.”

Dean doesn’t answer, which only serves to confirm Castiel in his certitude that Dean _knows_. Charlie clears her throat and Castiel breaks their silent exchange.

“Okay,” she says. Her hand fiddles with Castiel’s shirt and he looks down, frowning.

“What are you doing?” he asks, bemused by the black device she is trying to hide on him. It looks innocent enough, but he can’t grasp its use.

“Here,” she says shakily, straightening his collar. She narrows her eyes at him critically, but nods eventually. “It’s a bug, a transmitter. We’ll hear everything you say, so whenever you can pull it off, give us as much information as possible.” She laughs nervously and rubs at her brow. “Try to keep it intact, it cost a freaking fortune.” Castiel hears the worry lacing the humor and nods solemnly.

“I promise,” he says, and only just has the time to draw in a breath before Charlie pulls him into a bone-crushing hug. He exhales in a rush, arms coming up awkwardly around her shoulders. She smells like sleep and soap, and Castiel’s eyes sting when he pulls back.

Sam pats him on the back with a tentative smile, and Castiel nods.

Then... There is Dean. There is always Dean, the one he is the most reluctant to leave, the one that makes him _feel_ so much that sometimes he just wants it to stop altogether. Dean isn’t looking at him. His gaze is riveted to the concrete ground, and when Castiel wraps his hand around his wrist, his lower lip trembles, almost imperceptibly. He clears his throat and looks up at Castiel, blinking too quickly.

“Yeah, Cas. Try to stay alive until we get there, ‘kay?”

And Castiel can only offer him a twisted smile, but something in him aches to tell him _I love you_ , to kiss him breathless and run away with him.

Instead, he rolls his shoulders, pockets the blade and the gun, and walks away without looking back.

***

 

The hotel is luxurious. Even in the dark glow of the streetlights, Castiel can see its flowered balconies and pristine walls. He is standing in front of the main entrance, staring at the wooden double doors with something akin to trepidation pulsing in his chest.

“I’m going in,” he mumbles, and he can only hope that the device Charlie pinned to his collar actually works, because he has no way of knowing for sure. He pushes open the doors, comforted by the weight of the angel blade in his hand. He twirls it once, twice before squaring his shoulders.

At first he thinks the hall is empty. The setting is as cliché as it can get, from the white marble covering the floor to the chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings. Castiel’s steps are echoing against the smooth walls. He feels... efficient, for lack of a better term. More efficient than he has been since he fell. The telltale buzz of adrenaline is flowing in his veins, heightening his senses until his nostrils are flaring, his pupils dilated.

The smell hits him. He would recognize it anywhere, could pick out the tiniest tang in the middle of a crowd. He's spent too much time torn between Hell and Heaven not to recognize the sharp burst of sulfur. He tenses reflexively, whirling around to be greeted by a fair-haired man in a fitted suit, a broad grin plastered on his face as his eyes flicker to the angel blade Castiel is holding.

“I trust you have an appointment?” he asks. His posh accent sounds as fake as his smile; his glassy eyes flash black for barely a second. Castiel’s instincts kick in, almost painful in their clarity. He launches forwards and, before the demon can give more than a flinch, buries the blade in his stomach. The demon gasps, a hissing, painful sound, and white light flashes through his orbits. 

Castiel holds him there until he can feel the body give a last, pointless jerk. He holds his chin up and his eyebrows drawn together and forbids himself to think about the demon’s host as it falls to the floor, lifeless. Blood is already spreading over the spotless marble, a clash of colors that has Castiel’s stomach lurching.

“Demons,” he murmurs. “They are demons. I don’t know how many of them. I just killed one.”

He crosses the hall quickly, ignoring the elevator and trying to detect anything unusual. Everything looks empty. He can’t hear anything but the ominous sound of his shoes hitting the floor, reverberating against the emptiness of the room.

He is about to open the door that leads to the stairs when he sees the sign. It’s a plain thing, adorned with thick golden letters reading _Conference Room_. The hallway indicated by the arrow is dimly lit, and the door is closed, but his chest constricts painfully. For some reason, he knows he will find what he seeks behind this door.

He's lost enough time already. He has the sinking feeling that the three hours of the ultimatum have been exceeded, and the thought makes a shudder go through his spine. He crosses the hallway and tries to ignore the beads of sweat dripping on his forehead, the moistness of his palms against the handle of the blade. He can’t let this human bullshitslow him down. Not now, not ever.

He pushes the doors quickly. Aiming for stealth seems rather counterproductive at this point. At first, he can’t see a single thing. For a brief moment he thinks that he has been misled and that the room is empty, but as his eyes adapt to the gloom, barely tempered by the light of the hallway, he thinks he can see the outline of someone sitting at the table.

All thoughts flee Castiel’s mind, except for the need to check on whoever is slumped in this chair, head hanging low and arms pulled back, probably tied together. He dashes towards the table, sitting on his heels to peer up at the person’s face.

“Jonah?” he asks, tone hushed, but no, it can’t be Jonah. Jonah wouldn’t be here still, wouldn’t be bound by such things as ropes. But the broken moan he gets in answer is hoarse, painful and undoubtedly _familiar_.

 _I need light_ , he thinks as Jonah lifts his face slowly. The movement seems painful, another moan slipping from his lips. Castiel stands and rushes to the door, opening it wide to let the light into the room. When he returns to crouch next to Jonah again, the sight makes his stomach heave and his mouth fill with tasteless saliva. Fighting off his nausea, Castiel leans over and tries to catch the angel’s attention. His chapped lips are covered in dried blood, and so are his nose and his cheeks. There is a gash crossing his neck that would have killed him, were he human. For some reason, it looks like it has stopped healing halfway through the process, blood clogging the borders of the injury. Jonah’s eyes are open, but glazed over.

“Jonah,” Castiel says, picking up his blade to cut the ropes holding his wrists. “What have they done to you?”

His voice seems to snap the angel out of his pain-induced haze, and he whimpers, feet scrambling on the floor. His eyes are now wide with fear, and when his mouth opens, a bubble of reddened saliva appears at the corner of his lips.

“Leave me alone,” he howls, “Leave me alone, I don’t know anything else!”

There is something bubbling down Castiel’s chest, a rage so powerful it seems to burn out the last remnants of his fear.

“Jonah,” he repeats. “It’s me. Castiel.”

The ropes fall on the floor with a muffled thump, but Jonah doesn’t move. He looks exhausted, worn out by what must have been hours of torture.

“Castiel –” Jonah murmurs. His eyes fall shut, revealing his eyelids, crusted with blood. “Castiel, she has Nora. Don’t let her kill Nora, please, don’t let her –”

“Who is _she_ , Jonah?” Castiel hisses, forcing Jonah’s hands back onto his lap. Jonah almost falls over, but somehow manages to straighten in the chair.

“The Queen. She’s the Queen of Hell,” he rasps, voice raw. “ _Abaddon_.”

The name strikes something in Castiel. He remembers Sam’s voice when he told him about the last trial, remembers the name _Abaddon_ and the terror she inspired in him. A Knight of Hell.

 “You shouldn’t have come,” Jonah says. “It’s a trap. She wants the key.”

There is a white light burning behind Jonah’s pupils. At first, Castiel thinks it is a trick played by the dim light, but when realization hits him, his blade falls on the floor with a loud clatter and he brings his hands to frame Jonah’s face.

“No,” he says forcefully. “ _No_ , don’t you die, don’t you dare.”

Jonah groans, shudders, and what little life remaining in his body seems to disappear slowly.

“Tell her I’m sorry,” he murmurs. His eyes widen impossibly, light travelling under his skin, illuminating his veins like a rush of fire. The blast of his Grace leaving the human vessel is blinding, but Castiel doesn’t take his eyes off it. He doesn’t plead, doesn’t cry when Jonah’s empty shell slumps on the table. He just picks up his blade and stands slowly, wiping the blood on his jeans.

“ABADDON,” he shouts. His voice reverberates, and he can hear its echo travelling in the empty hallway. 

The silence that follows seems to last an eternity, though Castiel knows a minute doesn’t go by before he hears it. Nora’s voice, coming from down the hall. Screaming. _Pleading._ With one last look at Jonah’s dead vessel, Castiel dashes forwards and leaves the room. Blood pounding in his ears, he stops short at the sight waiting for him in the white room.

Demons. At least a dozen of them. They’re _everywhere_. Still and silent, almost reverent, their black eyes turned away from him and focused on the center of the room, where a woman is standing. Her skin is pale and her lips blood-red, twisted in a smirk. Castiel knows who she is. Nora is kneeling at her feet, eyes wide and terrified.

“Liked my surprise, angel?” Abaddon sneers. “I did. It was very…” she pauses, licks her lips lewdly. “…dramatic.”

 And suddenly, Castiel doesn’t hear anything – doesn’t see anything – besides her. This woman, this _demon,_ has caused Jonah’s death. This demon is holding Nora’s head up, red nails biting into her forehead. This demon will die and he will be the one to kill her if it’s the last thing he does.

He glances down at Nora’s tear-stained cheeks and tries to convey as much as he can. Tries to say _I’m sorry_ and _I never wanted this_. Tries to say _I want you to be safe_ , but Nora just stares at him wordlessly, her huge eyes reddened.

He knows better than to plead for Nora’s life. He knows that Abaddon takes great delight in hearing her victims beg for mercy. He looks her in the eyes, legs steady and blade drawn. None of the other demons are moving, all waiting for orders.

“I am here now. Talk.”

A flash of rage crosses Abaddon’s delicate features and Castiel doesn’t need his Grace to imagine how ugly her true form must be under it, black and red smoke curling into a mask of horror and destruction.

“I think you’ll find you’re not in a position to order me around,” she says, smiling. Her white teeth gleam unnaturally in the harsh light of the chandeliers. Castiel doesn’t look away, doesn’t answer. Her smile slips from her face and she scowls, pushing Nora so brutally she cries out, collapsing on the floor and curling in on herself with a sob.

Abaddon steps over her and crosses the space to Castiel with confident steps, her hips swaying exaggeratedly. Castiel fights the urge to step back and holds his ground, the blade shining in his hand. She is close to him, her sulfuric breath brushing his face, sending shudders all the way down Castiel’s spine.

“A little birdie told me about you,” she singsongs quietly in his ear. “It told me that you had a little something I wanted.” Her hand comes up to caress his cheek softly. “And you know what I did to the little birdie?” she sounds gleeful. “I _snapped_ its fluffy wings and I broke them into tiny little pieces.”

Castiel’s anger flares. He has never felt so wrathful in his life, has never wanted to _destroy_ someone as much as her. He acts on impulse, darts forward and stabs her in the chest. He feels the ribs give under the blade and revels in her surprised, hissing gasp. Her lips are forming a perfect “o” as she stares up at him with watery blue eyes. Castiel feels a surge of cruel triumph and waits for the flash of light signaling her death.

It never happens.

What happens, though, is that someone sneaks up behind him and takes hold of his arms, twisting them painfully. He shouts, kicking out in the hope of getting rid of his assailant, but their hold is implacable. Abaddon straightens, face twisted in fury. She grips the handle of the blade and pulls it out of her chest.

“That _stung_ ,” she spits out, and slaps Castiel across the face so hard he hears his neck give an ominous crack. He doesn’t react, gaze focused on a spot just above Abaddon’s shoulders.

“What do you want from me,” he says blankly, because he knows when to act defeated and now is definitely the moment. Abaddon laughs and makes an imperious gesture. Castiel is released from the faceless being's hold and sways on his feet. He manages to stay up and he glares at her, mouth set in a tight line.

“I like you,” she says breezily. “You remind me of this other pretty thing. What was his name, again?” She snaps her fingers. “Ah, yes. _Dean_ , wasn’t it?” She trails a thumb over Castiel’s lips and he resists the urge to bite it off. “It’s not so much what I _want_ from you as it is what I _don’t_ want. You see, my little birdie told me you had a way of reopening Heaven.” She frowns and tuts, shaking her head. “I don’t like that idea at _all,_ sweetheart.”

Castiel stays quiet. He clenches his fist, feels the ring around his finger.

“Why don’t I like the idea?” she goes on, “Because now I have Hell for me, sweetheart, I want _Earth_ , too.” She sighs. “You see, sometimes demons lack a little… _finesse_. But I have met two angels who were more than ready to help me, if only they had their share of it.”

Castiel swallows around the lump in his throat and tries to keep a straight face. His mind is rushing, trying to find a way out, trying to find a way of warning Sam and Dean of the amount of demons in the hotel. They are still silent, motionless in a way that scares Castiel more than anything else. They look _brainwashed_ , if such an expression is applicable in the situation.

Abaddon snickers and takes Castiel’s hand. She lifts it, forcing his fingers open. The ring looks rather innocuous in the open light. A simple green band of metal.

“Fortunately, I have good informants and your little friend was just _too easy_ to break.”

Castiel tries to snatch back his hand, but his human strength, though considerable, is no match for Abaddon’s.

“Beautiful,” she sighs, trailing her finger over it, but before she can try to pry it from Castiel’s finger, a new voice speaks, low and calm.

“Hello, Abaddon.”

Castiel doesn’t know if he imagines the slight tension in Abaddon’s shoulders as she drops his hand. She nods at something behind Castiel and suddenly the hands are back on him, two pairs this time, tugging at his arms and pulling his hair.

The man who just spoke is tall and thin. His skin holds the pale complexion of someone who hasn’t seen the sun in a long while, and he is dressed elegantly in a black suit and white gloves.

“Pyriel,” Abaddon says, voice hard. “What are you doing here?”

Of course, it is Pyriel. Castiel closes his eyes briefly and sighs a little, because even as a human he seems to have the shittiest luck. It doesn’t even surprise him anymore.

“I could ask you the same thing.” He turns to Castiel, eyes boring through him, and his lip curls in disgust. Castiel has the sudden urge to spit in his face.

“Look at him,” Pyriel says, voice honeyed. He is peering down at Castiel with the blank interest of a scientist. Castiel wants to wipe that look off his face with his nails. “Is it true,” he asks without looking away from Castiel, “That you found a way to enter Heaven?”

Hope flashes through Castiel. Pyriel is an angel. He will help him. No matter how heartless he is, he will not stomp on his only chance to leave the ground to its mud-monkeys.

“Yes,” he rasps. “ _Yes_.”

Pyriel’s eyes are cold and his face expressionless. Next to him, Abaddon looks somewhat cowed, and Castiel suddenly wonders if she really does hold the reins in this deal.

“This is…unfortunate,” Pyriel says, and Castiel’s legs give out. The only things holding him up are the demons’ clutches, but he can’t bring himself to care. He feels numb, crushed. “It would be strategically unwise, at the moment. I am so close to having what I want. Show it to me.” His voice is still flat, but the order quite clear.

Castiel doesn’t try to resist when his arm is freed and tugged up, doesn’t even wince when Pyriel’s cold hand closes around his wrist.

“Interesting,” he breathes. “If you don’t mind, I will take this.”

Castiel grits his teeth and kicks out once more, but to no end. He snarls, trying to shake Pyriel’s hands off him where they try to slip the ring from his finger. Except – it doesn’t budge. Castiel feels the metal tighten around him, biting almost painfully into the skin.

Pyriel smiles, and Castiel’s blood turns ice-cold when he sees the blade in his hand. He tries not to let his panic show, but Pyriel is an angel, and his smile sharpens like the weapon he is holding.

Everything happens so fast.

Castiel feels the blade against his skin and braces himself for the pain.

Oh, does it come. And when it comes, it is worse than he had ever imagined, worse even than the torture and the beatings he endured when he was still an angel. Because angels don’t feel pain the way humans do. Angels see pain as something necessary and slightly bothersome, like a brief itch in the eternal canvas of their lives.

Human pain is bright-hot and messy. Human pain is the scream that tears itself from his throat as he feels the blade cut into his skin, bump against his bone and _go on_. Even when the blade disappears, the pain stays and Castiel is left shaking and rattling, eyes screwed shut.

And suddenly, there is a deafening blast, louder even than the blood pumping in his ears, and the hands holding him up are gone. He crumples on the ground and lets himself open his eyes, tries to ignore how his hand throbs and the tepid blood running down. But he can’t see anything other than _brightness_ , pure and burning. He rolls over with a groan, arm coming up to shield his face. There are shouts, voices rattling off orders. Castiel thinks he can make out Charlie’s voice among them, and Nora is yelling words that he can’t discern, and then everything goes dark.

When he comes to, he isn’t at the hotel anymore. It takes him a few seconds to realize that he is, in fact, in the backseat of the Impala, head pillowed on Dean’s lap. There’s a hand on his face and Dean’s voice mumbling things he can’t make out, and his arm is cradled against Dean’s chest. Castiel wants to talk, wants to ask questions, wants to know what happened, but the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a wet gurgle. Sam must be driving, but he doesn’t speak, probably too focused on not crashing the car at the speed they are driving. Castiel notices idly through the window that it is not dark anymore. For some reason this makes him feel better. Time goes by, even when he is not looking.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Dean says, and his face appears, very close, white as a sheet and tight-lipped. His smile is wobbly. “Don’t move,” he mutters, and Castiel grits his teeth when something presses against the wound that was once his finger. He doesn’t know if it is the blood loss or the pain, or just the dizziness of what is happening, but his first clear thought is an apology to Jimmy Novak. Then he remembers all the things he should apologize for to Jimmy Novak, and that he will never be able to, and he starts to laugh.

It doesn’t feel like a good laugh. It doesn’t sound it, either, and Castiel wonders if the wetness on his cheeks comes from his tears, or his blood.

“Dean, he cut off my finger,” he mumbles pointlessly, eyes slipping shut once again. He groans when something squeezes the injury, searing pain taking hold of his entire arm. 

“I know, Cas, I’m so fucking sorry,” Dean answers, and his voice sounds a little watery.

“Why?” he rasps. “It’s not your fault. Does he have the key?”

The moment the question leaves his mouth, he feels the urgency of the situation slam back into him and his whole body spasms with it, his eyes flying open.

“The key! Dean, he has the key!” he shouts, trying to shake off Dean’s hand on his chest, pinning him to the seat. Dean scrambles to his knees, pressing him down. Castiel hears Sam curse and ask something.

“No, Cas, he _doesn’t_. The weirdest shit happened, I swear. We got in just after he…” his voice trails off and he looks away. “And then, he kind of…screamed and threw it away and it started glowing real bright, like when you came back from your freak-ass coma. And then Abaddon and the demons were gone and the guy, too –”

“Pyriel,” Castiel cuts him off. “It was Pyriel.”

Dean snorts and shakes his head. He is still holding Castiel’s hand, has wrapped it in a white piece of cloth that is now stained with blood. He is cradling it against his chest, and Castiel’s pain is more of a numb, persistent throbbing, now that the adrenaline has kicked in. He dreads the moment it will wear off, leaving him raw and lonely.

“Anyway, it’s in the trunk. We – we haven’t touched it, though. I wrapped it in a tissue”

Castiel nods, wincing.

“Good. Nora? How is Nora?”

Dean’s hand is splayed against Castiel’s chest, just above his heart, as if he needs to convince himself that Castiel is alive. His thumb caresses the spot restlessly.

“She’s freaking out. Charlie stayed with her at the hotel. Sam’ll go get them once you’re at the hospital. She’s kind of…difficult to deal with at the moment.”

Castiel nods, feeling his lips quirk in a reluctant smile.

“Understandable.”

His voice sounds faraway even to his own ears, and he is growing tired, _too_ tired to keep a hold on his muscles. The quiet rumble of the engine is lulling him to sleep.

“Stay with me, buddy,” Dean says softly, a warm hand pressing to Castiel’s cheek. Castiel opens his eyes and stares into Dean's eyes. He feels a little light-headed. He thinks he can almost see stars in Dean’s eyes, if he looks long enough.

“I’m with you, Dean,” he mumbles. “Dean Winchester. You do know that I am in love with you, right?”

There is a choked-off cough from the driver’s seat. _Sam_ , Castiel’s brain supplies helpfully, but he can’t find it in himself to regret his words when all the fatigue seems to leave Dean’s face for a second. Dean runs a hand through Castiel’s hair. Smiles.

“Yeah, Cas. I know.”

The car stops. Castiel tries to straighten, but Dean’s hold makes it difficult. He squints at the window, wondering why his vision is so blurry. The pain is still here, but it is more distant. 

“We’re here,” Sam says, voice laced with worry – and maybe, just maybe, a little amusement.

Dean’s hand leaves Castiel’s hair.

“Can you stand, Cas?”

Castiel gives it some thought and nods.

“Great,” Dean says, opening the door and sliding out of the car. With his help, Castiel sits and wobbles his way outside. Sam drives off the moment they close the door, probably to give Charlie some help with Nora, and Dean slips an arm around Castiel’s waist to keep him upright.

“He cut off my finger,” Castiel repeats a little dazedly. “What an asshole.”

He doesn’t know why Dean bursts out laughing, side warm against his, but the sound makes a little smile blossom over his chapped lips. Despite the blood-soaked cloth hiding the stump of his finger, he almost feels good. Good, because Dean is cradling him, holding him close. The fresh air has cleared Castiel’s head a little, and he thinks that he could walk by himself. He doesn’t tell Dean that, though. And if he exaggerates his stumbling for a chance to get closer, well, nobody will know.

Jonah is a vague, numb weight in the back of his mind, and Castiel is aware that once his semi-hysterical state wears off, he will suffer the added guilt of yet another casualty. He holds on to the fact that Nora is safe and tries to push the death of his friend out of his thoughts.

They make their way slowly across the parking lot until they reach the main entry. Inside, everything is white and buzzing with noise: snippets of conversations, the occasional cry of pain, and the tinny beeps of various machines. Castiel has always hated hospitals. To him, they smell like death, sadness, and body fluids. When he looks down at his bloodied hand, a wave of nausea and panic hits him. _This is not good_ , he thinks. _This is not good at all._

Dean guides him towards the reception desk, where a harried looking man is absorbed in reading a stack of files. Castiel keeps his freak-out quiet while Dean charms his way through the admission, spouting off a false name and a false explanation for Castiel’s injury.

The rest is something of a blur.

Before Castiel knows it, he is sitting in a sterile-looking room and there is a nurse disinfecting the wound, berating him for his less-than-sensible use of a jigsaw. Castiel does not point out that the borders of the cut look in no way like the dents of a saw. Instead, he glares at Dean, who is the one who came up with the story in the first place.

When the nurse tells him to wait for the doctor to come and then scurries out of the room, Dean leans against the wall and observes as Castiel tries with all his might not to look at his hand. He has had someone rummage through his internal organs, but this is the first time that he has been confronted with his new inability to heal himself. Sure, he's already suffered injuries, particularly during his stay in Chicago, but they were mostly flesh wounds. This – it makes him sick just to look at it.

“You okay, Cas?” Dean asks, and his voice is strangely soft. Castiel wonders to what extent Dean can read him, can decipher the silent language of his body. He nods tightly, lips pressed together. Dean, blessedly, doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to touch him either. He just stares at him, eyes dark and serious.

The door opens with a click and Castiel doesn’t pay it attention. He assumes it is the doctor that the nurse mentioned, coming to prescribe him the necessary treatment. But the words that break the silence of the room are not the ones he expects.

“Hello, brother.”

Castiel’s neck goes rigid. He is out of his chair in a beat, hands scrambling for a weapon, anything. He hears Dean’s startled exclamation and slides in front of him as he turns towards the newcomer and –

Freezes. Everything seems to freeze. There is a familiarity to the man standing between them and the exit. Something that is screaming at Castiel to bow his head and submit, the old reflex of an angel faced with a superior rank. He doesn’t, though, fixing his gaze on the dark eyes piercing through him. There is nothing threatening in the angel’s stance, but the aura of power that exudes from him makes Castiel nervous.

“Who are you?” he spits, and doesn’t react when Dean’s hand closes around his elbow.

“Cas,” Dean hisses, “That’s him. The one you’re looking for, the Guardian of Eden. I recognize him.”

Joshua stares at Dean and tips his head in recognition, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Of course, it would be a Winchester.” His eyes flick back to Castiel and he nods. “Castiel. I can’t say it is a pleasure to finally meet you. I have been looking for you. Would you care to tell me why a group of very determined angels is raising hell on Earth in order to kill me?”

Castiel opens his mouth. Closes it without uttering a word. He rubs at the nape of his neck, too bewildered by this twist in the situation to find something sensible to say.

“Hello, Joshua,” is all he can muster, blinking dumbly in the sharp light of the hospital room.

_TBC_


	7. Chapter 7

# Part Fourteen

 

The light of Heaven’s Gates is blindingly white, and Joshua is calling his brothers and sisters. Castiel feels it down to his marrow, the Voice. It makes his bones rattle and his brain pound against his skull. He watches, watches as Joshua steps in first. There are angels around them and they keep coming, but nothing matters to Castiel more than Dean’s presence behind him.

He can see the imprint of their wings as they disappear into the light, leaving behind their confused vessels. He hears Pyriel’s furious yell, but nothing can stop the angels from leaving now. Castiel tries to imagine how it feels to step back inside a home they thought was gone forever.

Some are choosing to stay. Some look at the Gates and stay here, much like Castiel.

They know that once they step through, there will be no coming back.

Pyriel leaves his vessel crumpled on the ground like a dirty shirt. Sam and Charlie help the man up and he starts crying uncontrollably, clutching at his head like he is afraid it might explode. Castiel swallows and looks away.

***

Nora is clutching at Castiel’s arm as the Gates sew back together, leaving behind them nothing but a faint scent of ozone and a feeling of loneliness spreading inside Castiel’s chest. The remaining angels are disappearing, one by one. Castiel knows that their Grace will fade with time. Soon, they will be humans in a land of humans. Everything is as it must be.

“You okay, Cas?” Dean asks from behind him, and Castiel allows his shoulders to sag at the familiar voice. When he turns, he is greeted by two bewildered eyes. Castiel knows the feeling.

“It’s over,” he breathes. Finally, finally. It’s over. Nora bursts out laughing, her fingers digging painfully into the flesh of Castiel’s arm. She takes great care not to touch his injured hand. She hasn’t uttered a word since she learned of Jonah’s death, and Castiel is beginning to think he doesn’t know the whole story.

“Jimmy,” she hiccups, “Your family is a bunch of dicks.”

Castiel has nothing to offer back, so he shrugs and leans into her a little, trying to convey everything he can’t say.

Dean pats Nora on the shoulder, awkwardly.

“Where are Sam and Charlie?” Castiel asks. There is more that he wants to say, but it will have to wait until they are alone. Dean rubs at the nape of his neck and Castiel catches his other hand reflexively. It is covered in grime, but that doesn’t stop him from landing a kiss on the upturned palm. Dean stutters and his cheeks take on a beautiful color.

“I – huh. They’re with the vessels. They’re a little perturbed.”

Castiel chuckles, trying to clear his head. He feels on edge, his skin buzzing with unshed adrenaline. He almost doesn’t notice Nora’s hand leaving his arm and her mumbled “I’ll go help them”, and before he knows it, they are alone, Sam’s voice a distant, soothing background noise.

“So,” Dean says, wriggling his legs. His hands are in his pockets and his expression cautious. “This is it.”

Castiel blinks, all too aware of the familiarity of the situation. This time, Dean is right. This is it.

“It’s over, yes,” he says eventually. He opens his mouth to add – something. To ask Dean how he is, to say _I’m sorry_ , to blurt out the truth, but he is cut off by Dean’s lips on his, hard and unrelenting. He huffs in surprise, but it doesn’t take him long to get with the program, kissing back hungrily. Suddenly, nothing is more important that his hands trailing on Dean’s leather-clad back, than pressing their bodies flush together, than kissing Dean until he feels light-headed with the lack of oxygen.

And then –

“Hello, little man,” says a familiar voice, and they jump apart. 

_***_

Dean whips around, gun in hand, before Castiel can even move. His eyes slip shut and he breathes in slowly, trying to quell his sudden panic.

Not now, he wants to say. Give me a little more time.

But he knows it would be pointless. One can’t plead fate.

He opens his eyes.

“Who are you, lady?” Dean barks, shotgun pointed in Yggdrasill’s direction. His back is turned to Castiel now, and the realization that Yggdrasill could kill Dean in a blink if She were so inclined makes terror burst into his chest.

But Yggdrasill doesn’t look annoyed at Dean’s aggressiveness. She doesn’t move, doesn’t even twitch, but the gun suddenly disappears from Dean’s hand as if it were never here in the first place. Dean stumbles back and Castiel puts up his hands reflexively, catching him before they collide.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean mumbles, and Castiel decides to speak up before Dean does something more stupid.

“Hello, Yggdrasill,” he says, bowing his head and trying to keep his voice blank and his face expressionless. She is naked, still, but there is no sensuality to it. There is only power, shuddering under ebony skin. She stares at him coolly, the hint of a smile on Her lips.

“Cas?” Dean asks, and Castiel’s heart splits open at the seams. He doesn’t risk a glance, doesn’t move when Dean’s hand closes on his elbow. “Cas, what’s happening? What’s she doing here?”

Castiel blinks against the harsh sting of his own words.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I haven’t been truthful with you.”

Dean’s hand clenches, unclenches on Castiel’s arm and his voice, when he speaks, is barely more than a whisper.

“What?”

Yggdrasill steps towards them and smiles.

“I have come to claim my due, little man,” She says, Her deep eyes boring into Castiel’s. He nods weakly, trying to keep his lips from trembling.

“I know.”

Everything feels cold, and Castiel wonders if it is Yggdrasill’s doing, or if his psyche is playing tricks on him. Dean shifts next to him.

“Cas,” he says, pressing. Then, when Castiel refuses to turn, “Damn it, Cas, look at me!”

Castiel’s breath is shuddery and wet, and he feels like crying. He steels himself and moves, facing Dean. His expression burns its way into Castiel’s chest, confusion and sorrow mingled.

“Cas, what does that mean?” Dean asks. His voice is at odds with his look, soft and pleading.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel repeats. “I had to keep you and your brother safe. I had to repair my mistakes. I couldn’t bear the idea of this world falling into their hands.”

Dean’s expression shatters in pained disbelief.

“What did you _do_?” he says roughly, shaking Castiel’s arm. Now is not the time for riddles, and Castiel inhales deeply, trying to keep himself together when everything else seems to be falling apart. Yggdrasill isn’t moving. She is gazing around serenely, an almost curious look on Her face.

“I exchanged my soul for the key.”

Dean’s grip on his arm loosens suddenly, his face going slack in horror.

“What?” he asks, voice growing faint. “You _what_?”

Castiel falls quiet, eyes drifting over Dean’s shoulder to focus on a tree. This whole situation feels unbearably familiar. He can almost smell the scent of the holy oil.

Except this time, there is no coming back. There is no forgiveness.

There is only the pain in Castiel’s chest, mirrored in Dean’s eyes.

“I love you, Dean.” It is punched out of him, and for a moment, the mask of sadness slips from Dean’s face to be replaced with such pure, naked _wonder_ that Castiel almost wants to smile. Dean always looks so surprised when he hears those words. “I love you and I want you to be safe. And Sam,” he amends. “And Charlie, Kevin.” He closes his eyes and they suddenly feel wet. The salty tang of his tears soils his tongue when he licks his lips. “You’re my family. I couldn’t let them slaughter you.”

When his eyes slip open, Dean doesn’t look angry anymore. His eyes are shiny and his face pale, but there is no bitterness left, only anguish.

“You can’t leave me,” he says, stepping closer. His words are slurred and his voice scratchy. “You – just _can’t_ , what am I going to do?”

Castiel’s palm finds Dean’s cheeks and he smiles, a watery, pitiful thing. Dean leans into the touch, eyes fluttering shut for a brief instant.

“You will live, Dean. You will live and you will find someone – someone who makes you happy.”

But Dean is shaking his head. “I don’t want someone. I want you, Cas. _Castiel_. I’m begging you, man, don’t do this.”

And Castiel wants nothing more than to cave in. He wants nothing more than to believe there is a way out, that he could stay like this for eternity, in this frozen moment, trapped in Dean’s eyes and in his heart.

But there is no going back, and Dean must understand that, somehow, because his chest heaves against Castiel’s. Their lips brush, Castiel’s hand leaving Dean’s cheek to tangle in his hair. _This is the last kiss._ This is the last time he will feel Dean’s hands on him, tugging him in, rough and desperate, his lips searching and opening under the pressure, his teeth nipping at Castiel’s upper lip.

The moment is over too fast, and Dean’s expression is blank, numb when Castiel steps back and glances at Yggdrasill. She is looking at them now, and Castiel hates Her for being so peaceful while She is tearing him open.

“Take care of Ruth,” Castiel says, trying to school his features into a determined mask. He fails, and his voice betrays him anyway. “Bid my goodbyes to the others. Tell Sam – tell him I’m sorry.”

Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t kiss back when Castiel leans over one last time. He looks shell-shocked.

Then Dean disappears and so does the world.

Everything is white, everything is petrified.

Castiel falls, for the last time. 

# Part Fifteen

 

There is a lake in Yggdrasill’s Kingdom. It shimmers in the pale morning light, gray reflections flickering over its surface.

Castiel stands here, and he tries not to forget.

***

Most of the time, he wanders.

There is an infinity of sublime things to see in Yggdrasill’s Kingdom, but they are bland to Castiel’s eyes.

Some of the souls approach him, poke at him curiously. _Why are you here_ , they whisper, _this is no place for a human_.

Castiel doesn’t respond. Doesn’t look at them, really.

He is a ghost in a land of ghosts. It seems fitting.

One is more persistent. His name is Sariel, and he is – _was_ an angel. Castiel lets him in, lets him tag along quietly. Like a silent shadow.

Somehow he always finds himself back at the lake.

***

Some say that the lake is a portal to the other side. Sariel doesn’t like to spend time around it, and that suits Castiel just fine. Being alone isn’t really a problem, not anymore.

Once he caught a glimpse of Dean’s face in the water. He was asleep, and the shadows under his eyes were wide and dark.

Castiel doesn’t know if it was reality or a mere hallucination. He doesn’t really want to know, anyway.

He just needs a calm place, and the others seem scared of the lake. It is the silence, maybe. There is no silence in Yggdrasill’s kingdom, except for here. It falls on Castiel’s shoulders like a cloak of peace.

So Castiel wanders. Castiel peers at the shiny veneer of ice threading along the edges of the lake.

Castiel hopes.

***

The back of a sunfish brushes the surface, and Castiel snaps out of his thoughts, blinking against impossible tears. He shouldn’t be able to cry. Here, he has no corporeal shell. He looks down at his hands, but knows they are just an illusion. After all, he is but a soul.

He wonders if Dean had to cremate his body, or if Yggdrasill disposed of it when She took him. He doesn’t know which options he prefers.

“Castiel, are you here?”

Castiel straightens, brushes an invisible speck of dust off his jeans and sighs. He doesn’t bother turning around. He recognizes the deep voice and the overpowered presence.

“I am, Sariel,” he says, barely a whisper. His gaze doesn’t leave the water, waiting. He knows that he can’t miss it. It is so rare, to see a glimpse of the other side. Like staring into a broken mirror. Now, it sparkles softly, devoid of Dean’s face. Devoid of what he’s looking for.

Castiel feels, more than he sees, Sariel sitting down next to him on the frozen ground. Everything is so silent, so _still_. Sometimes Castiel wants to yell his frustration away. Wants to break something, to _hurt_ something.

Most of the time, though, he lets his soul feed the Kingdom and he watches the lake. Restlessly, obsessively. Silently.

“You must let go, brother,” Sariel says softly, and Castiel doesn’t spare a glance sideways. He knows what he will see. Pity and incomprehension, written all over the large, beefy face of Sariel’s former vessel. Sariel doesn’t understand. Sariel _can’t_ understand. Angels know what love is, but they only know it _grandly_. They give their love to God, to Heaven. Sariel can’t understand the amount of love Castiel has for one puny, brash human.

“I can’t,” he says simply. This time, Sariel’s sigh is deep, a roll of thunder, a flicker of annoyed Grace. It reminds Castiel of Uriel, and the memories flow through his mind, unstopped. He smiles, a wry twist of the mouth.

“It has been two years, Castiel.”

 _Not on Earth_ , _it hasn’t_.

Castiel doesn’t say it. He knows very well the path this exchange would follow, for he has lived it almost every day since his arrival in the Kingdom. Sariel’s conversation is lacking, but that doesn’t bother him. He knows how tiresome solitude can be, and Sariel is the only angel in the Kingdom. Castiel is the only human, but Sariel has seen past his scarred, muddied soul and has recognized Castiel for what he used to be.

“Why are you here, Sariel?”

There’s a quiet, questioning sound, and Castiel is reminded of Ruth. He is certain that Sariel wouldn’t like to be made aware of this comparison. He wisely doesn’t mention it.

“Because you are my brother.”

Castiel huffs and shakes his head, looking down at his feet.

“Why are you in the Kingdom?” he amends, turning his head at last. Sariel’s gaze is fixed on the lake, and Castiel doesn’t miss the way his Grace flickers and shifts under his vessel’s incorporeal flesh.

But Sariel answers, voice heavy and low.

“I asked for a way out.”

 _What do you mean?_ Castiel wants to ask, but something holds him back. The obvious distress showing on Sariel’s usually blank face, maybe. He nods and presses his lips together. He wants nothing more than to be left alone. Silent contemplation is far more relaxing than their tight conversation. 

That’s when Castiel feels the murmur. It starts with a prickling sensation deep inside his chest. His soul shudders, curling in on itself, and he feels his vessel blink out of existence for a second.

Castiel sighs and stands up, shooting one last look at the lake.

“I am being called.”

Sariel is used to it by now. He simply turns reverent eyes on him and nods.

“She never did that before, you know,” he says. Castiel knows. It is the fifteenth time he has heard this, and it still doesn’t make much sense. Why does Yggdrasill call him? He has no idea. She does so regularly, making him sit at the base of Her trunk. She asks questions. She listens to his answers. She even sounds interested.

“I think She doesn’t know many things about humans,” Castiel answers quietly, gathering his strength. He has learned how to use the Tree World to its full potential. He feels the soft buzzing of energy under his feet, moves his fingers softly to attract a startlingly blue ray of light, and _disappears_.

When he blinks back into existence under Yggdrasill’s foliage, his soul is clenching and lurching, an angry twirling of white light.

Yggdrasill, as usual, doesn’t seem to take notice of his discomfort or, if She does, doesn’t mention it. Castiel wonders idly if this sensation was what Dean felt when Castiel flew them both away. He feels a sudden surge of belated sympathy.

 _Hello, little man_ , She murmurs in the wind, and the soft breeze of Her voice vibrates through the air, inhuman. Respect swells in Castiel’s chest and he inclines his head without even thinking. It has become a habit, something to trick boredom. He isn’t bitter. Not anymore. He doesn’t have the energy, nor the courage, to hold a grudge against an entity that couldn’t possibly _understand_ the complexity of humanity. Deities are like angels, in a way. They only see the grand scheme of things, the _bigger picture_. Castiel used to be like this, and he sometimes misses the old times. Everything was simple back then.  

“Hello,” he says, shuffling until he is sitting cross-legged, facing the gigantic trunk.

 _Talk to me_ , She orders, and Castiel talks. He knows what Yggdrasill wants, knows that She cares not for his life in Heaven, for She has all the knowledge She needs in that regard, but for his human experiences.

Castiel finds it oddly cathartic. He tells Her about the little things: the good and the bad. He tells Her about the smell of coffee in the morning, the time he stubbed his toe on the leg of the table and it hurt so much he let out a string of curses that had Kevin laughing for ten minutes. He talks about the cold and the loneliness. He tells Her about Ruth and her silent companionship, about the music, the art, the marvels he discovered on Earth.

Yggdrasill doesn’t answer. She never does, but Castiel knows She is listening. It shows in the slight tension around him, in the encouraging huffs of wind hissing in the branches like a strange instrument.

Time passes differently in the Kingdom, but Castiel knows that he has probably been here for days when Yggdrasill finally releases him with a whispered _You can go now_.

He stands slowly, splaying his fingers to chase away their numbness. He is grateful for this body, grateful for being able to keep some semblance of dignity. Baring his soul for everyone to see would not feel right.

 _Thank you, little man_ , Yggdrasill says, and Castiel bows deeply in answer.

He feels the nudge of energy and smiles to himself as he takes off. It is pure, purer than what he has ever been able to find in the Kingdom. It comes from Her.

Castiel disappears and for the first time since he got here, doesn’t feel forlorn.

***

The plants in Yggdrasill’s Kingdom look like nothing he has ever seen on Earth. He doesn’t know how they survive in this cold, cold world, but there is a multitude of varieties. He likes the blue ones. They look like cotton candy. Sometimes he touches them and longs for his human senses. He can’t feel anymore.

“What did She want?” Sariel asks, and Castiel jumps back, startled.

“Don’t do that,” he grunts, turning away from the flowers. He shrugs, a little helpless. “Nothing of import. She asked me to talk.” He sighs. “Again.”

Sariel’s imperturbable expression changes into one of great confusion. It amuses Castiel. His brother always looks so puzzled.

“I don’t understand,” Sariel says at last. Fortunately, he doesn’t pry, and Castiel doesn’t offer more details.

For some reason, they appreciate each other’s company. It is enough for Castiel.

***

_What about love, little man?_

“What about it?”

_How do humans love?_

“With all their being. It tears them apart.”

_Why do they love, then?_

“Because sometimes, it’s worth it.”

***

Castiel misses the stars. Here, there is day and there is night, but there are no stars. When he stares at the sky, there is nothing but obscurity.

He closes his eyes and tries to remember their immobile radiance.

They always morph into something else.

A face.

“Dean,” he murmurs to himself.

It is easy to forget in the Kingdom. Easy to let oneself drift along with the wind, with the quiet energy.

Every night, Castiel summons the image of Dean’s eyes, and keeps it in his mind like a treasure. 

***

 _Tell me about him_.

“Who?”

_The human you love._

“His name is Dean,” Castiel says.

“He’s a hero.”

 “I raised his soul from perdition. I rebuilt his body from dust and clay. I breathed life back into him.”

“When he looks at me, I feel like nothing else exists. Just us, lost somewhere beyond reality.”

“And I hurt.”

“But the funny thing is, I never want to stop hurting for him.”

_Why?_

“Because he’s what makes me human.”

***

Yggdrasill sings a lullaby in the wind.

 _Sleep, little man_ , She says, and Her voice is smiling.

_Thank you for your story._

_Sleep, little man_. 

Castiel doesn’t hear Her.

***

# Part Sixteen

 

Castiel wakes up.

It wouldn’t be alarming if it weren’t for the fact that he has not required sleep since he arrived in Yggdrasill’s kingdom.

As it is, something isn’t right, even if he is unable to pinpoint what. Keeping his eyes shut, he focuses all his other senses on his surroundings, trying to pick out the usual quiet, permanent sound of the souls fluttering around the Tree World, but there is nothing. Nothing, except a distant rumble.

He opens his eyes, and they feel sticky and disgusting.

Something isn’t right. There are clouds in the sky, for one. He hasn’t seen clouds in years.

There is also a crick in his neck. His stomach is achy and his mouth tastes sour.

He feels human.

He _feels_. 

He breathes in, and tries not to panic when air fills his lungs for the first time. Still, when he sits and looks around, his heart is thumping _– is beating_ , _his heart is beating, blood is flowing in his veins_.

He doesn’t know where he is yet, but he knows where he _isn’t_.

He has left the Kingdom.

And, as a squirrel – common gray, he notes absently – climbs along the trunk of a tree, he has the realization that he is back on Earth. He absently pats the ground, rubbing his palm to the dirt. The sensation tugs at his memory, and that’s when he notices that his left hand possesses all five fingers. He inhales the sweet scent of pine and wet grass, and everything slots back into place.

 “What,” is all he can manage, and his voice is scratchy with disuse. He is sitting in the middle of a painfully familiar pathway, and he already feels his pulse skyrocketing. He blinks at his stretched leg, putting his weight on his palms to straighten.

That’s when he hears it.

There’s a dog barking in the distance and he knows, instinctively, that he isn’t dreaming. Somehow he has found his way back home.

Someone yells a warning, something too indistinct for Castiel to make out. He doesn’t have time to stand. A fuzzy ball of dark fur is crossing the path at full speed, yapping joyfully. Before he can so much as speak, Ruth’s paws are on his shoulders and she’s licking his face with a scary amount of enthusiasm. He can vaguely hear more yelling, but he's too busy laughing and trying to stop her.

“Ruth! Heel!” the voice shouts. It is much closer now, and Castiel realizes belatedly that it is Sam’s. Ruth whines but doesn’t move, snuggling closer to Castiel. When he looks up, Sam’s face is stony and furious. He has a gun in hand, and his stance is defensive.

“Sam,” Castiel says, standing up as quickly as he can. Ruth is nosing at his jeans – the same jeans he was wearing when Yggdrasill took him – and his heart is pounding so fast it’s almost painful.

“Don’t move,” Sam barks, striding towards Castiel. He freezes reluctantly, fights the urge to smile; to cry, to let himself feel for the first time in years.

“Sam, it’s me,” he says softly. Sam laughs coldly and shakes his head. The gun digs painfully between Castiel’s ribs as he steps closer, _closer_ , until Castiel can see the pure, cold _rage_ on his face.

“ _What are you_ ,” Sam hisses through gritted teeth. There is no inflection to his voice, no question mark, and Castiel feels a shudder go through his spine. Of course, his friends would think he is a creature; he would doubt his own humanity if he didn’t feel it down to his very marrow, feel it with a vividness that has him light-headed.

“I’m Castiel,” he says faintly. “I’m your friend.”

Sam shakes his head once more, but the cold expression shatters for a split second, just enough to let show a flash of hesitation.

“Castiel is gone. You can’t – you can’t be him.”

Ruth barks. Castiel tilts his head and smiles at her.

“I beg to differ.”

The gun wavers in Sam’s hand. “I don’t… _Christo_.”

Castiel stares back calmly and Sam lets out a loud, shaky breath. He looks ready to panic. His free hand digs into his pocket, pulling out a sharp-edged knife. Castiel chooses not to question the fact that Sam is armed to the teeth and extends his arm wordlessly, hissing when the blade cuts into the thin skin of his forearm. Blood glistens on the edge of the wound and Sam curses, stumbling backwards, eyes wide.

“I can’t believe it,” he whispers. “Dean was right.”

 _Dean_. Castiel’s heartbeat stutters.

“I want to see Dean,” he says abruptly. “I want – is he alright?”

Sam nods absently, running a trembling hand through his hair.

“Yeah, he – he’s okay, I guess. He’s doing better, but – man, I can’t believe –” His voice trails off and Castiel is suddenly engulfed in a bone-crushing hug, all of his breath punched out of him. It takes him a second to hug back, and Sam’s warmth, _so human_ , has his eyes filling with tears.

When Sam steps back, clearing his throat, he looks embarrassed.

“Let’s – yeah, let’s go. Yeah.”

His movements are stiff when he turns and starts walking, whistling for Ruth to follow him. She does so reluctantly, stopping to look at Castiel every few steps, her dark eyes questioning and pleading at the same time. _Are you coming back_? she seems to ask, and Castiel smiles in answer.

 _I’m coming back. I’m coming home_.

His smile only grows when he catches up with Sam, who keeps glancing at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“He kept telling me,” Sam blurts out eventually as the Bunker comes into view. The wind is cool. Castiel wonders what month it is, wonders how much time has passed on Earth while he drifted in a frozen world. “Dean, he – he kept telling me you’d come back. I thought it was just his way of coping, I didn’t –” He shakes his head, and Castiel’s heart soars at his words.

“I had no idea I would come back,” he says, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. He closes his eyes briefly, overcome by a wave of guilt. “Sam, I’m sorry I left you – both of you. I hope you understand that I had no choice –” Sam stops walking abruptly and Castiel tenses, expecting a punch or a verbal attack.

“ _Cas_ ,” Sam says, eyes blazing. “You don’t get it, do you?”

Castiel blinks slowly, trying to connect the dots. When he fails, he shrugs helplessly and Sam sighs, rolling his eyes skywards.

“You saved the _world_. This –” he gestures to their surroundings. “All of this, it’s still standing because of you. _Thanks_ to you. If there was anyone who deserved to come back, it was _you_.”

Castiel opens his mouth, wants to point out that it was his fault the world was broken in the first place, but Sam is glaring at him, as if daring him to utter the words.

“Huh,” is all he says. Sam shrugs and turns his back to him, squinting at the Bunker’s door.

“Ready?” he asks. Castiel takes in a deep breath and nods.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he mutters. Sam huffs a laugh and shoots one last disbelieving look at him, as if trying to convince himself that Castiel is not, in fact, a hallucination. The heavy iron door is opened and Castiel crosses the demon trap, following Sam down the stairs with Ruth at his heels.

“Dean?” Sam calls out, and Castiel suddenly realizes that he has no idea how Dean will react to him. Every inch of his body is _screaming_ for Dean: for his skin, for his mouth, for his voice, for something to hold on to.

It doesn’t prepare him for the actual shock of hearing Dean shout back from the kitchen. He freezes, unsure of what to do, but Sam seizes his arm with a huff and drags him through the den.

“Found something while I was walking Ruth!” he says, loud enough to be heard from the kitchen.

“It better not be another stray cat,” Dean announces, and Castiel’s panic skyrockets, because Dean’s voice is getting louder and louder until he appears at the door and –

The metal bowl he was holding clatters onto the floor, sending batter everywhere. His face goes slack in shock and Castiel can’t move, can’t speak. He vaguely feels Sam’s hand leaving his arm, but his eyes are drawn to Dean’s face, _devouring_ him.

“Cas?” Dean says faintly, but he doesn’t try to close the space between them. In fact, he looks very much like he can’t move at all. Castiel nods, lips pressed tightly together. Dean closes his eyes for a second, and when he opens them again, they are wet and reddened.

“I’m real,” Castiel says, and it just feels right, like the last piece of a puzzle slotting into place.

Dean’s smile is a little wobbly, a little crooked, and the most beautiful thing in the world.

“Yeah,” he says, voice brittle. “Yeah, I know.”

Somehow Ruth has managed to sneak past them and is lapping at the batter splattered on the floor, but Castiel couldn’t care less. Dean has extended his hand and there is nothing stopping him from taking it, from holding on for dear life.

“I’m back,” he wheezes, and he knows that he is crying, that his nose is running and his palms are covered in dirt, but it doesn’t seem to deter Dean because his lips are everywhere: on his closed eyelids, on the curve of his neck, on his chapped lips. He lets Castiel sob against his t-shirt, murmuring sweet nonsense in his ear, until Castiel feels the weight on his chest lighten. His breathing clears and he sniffs awkwardly, wondering if he could wipe his nose on his sleeve without Dean noticing.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, and doesn’t really know if he’s apologizing for the snot on Dean’s shirt or for something else entirely – for everything, really. But Dean is shaking his head, clinging to him like he's a lifeline.

“Don’t be,” he says, “Don’t ever be.”

And Castiel lets Dean lead him to his bedroom, lets Dean tuck him in and slide in next to him, lets Dean ignore his protests of _I was dead, I don’t need more sleep_ , and shush him with his lips. And when his eyes slip shut, for the first time in what feels like forever, he isn’t afraid of falling.

***

“How did you know?” Castiel asks the morning after, Dean a warm weight on his chest.

Dean hums questioningly and Castiel sighs, trailing a hand through Dean’s hair. He's had a recent haircut, and Castiel likes the softness at the nape of his neck. 

“How did you know I’d come back?” he amends. There is a spider on the ceiling, making its way to the other side of the room. Castiel smiles.

Dean shrugs, and groans a little when his head hits Castiel’s chin.

“Dunno, I – I just knew,” he mumbles. “You always come back. And you had something to come back to. I –I read your journal, man.”

Castiel nods, feeling his chest constrict with emotion, and Dean seems to sense it because he shakes his head and groans again, with more feeling.

“Cas, I swear to god, I’ve had my share of chick-flick moments for like, a _year_.”

Castiel snorts and leans his head back against the headboard. Dean has filled him in on the changes that took place while he was away – seventy-three days, Castiel has learnt. He knows that Charlie and Nora live together – but not _together_ together, Dean had hastened to amend. It just hadn’t felt right for Charlie to let Nora go back to living on the streets, and Castiel, hearing the news, had felt a belated surge of affection for his friend. Kevin and Linda have officially taken up residence in the Bunker, while Crowley has apparently ‘gotten his head out of his ass and found a place’. There are still demons roaming the Earth and there will probably always be, but with the shutting of Heaven’s Gates Abaddon lost her most powerful allies and a lot of her credibility. The rest is politics; before thinking about taking control of Earth, she has to strengthen her hold on the Throne of Hell, and it might take an awful lot of time before the opportunity presents itself.

There will always be things to hunt and people to save, but as he kisses the top of Dean’s head and is rewarded with a mock-disgusted scoff, Castiel thinks he can live with that.

After all, he’s only human.

 

***

# Epilogue

_Two weeks later_

 

He hears Her before even drifting into consciousness, and the feeling is warm and familiar, a prickling sensation in his body and a tug at his mind.

Silently, he slips out of bed and listens for a second, reveling in Dean’s even breathing. He makes quick work of pulling on pants and he pads down the hallway, following his instincts.

He finds Her on the roof. He shivers when his bare feet hit the stone. The night is cold and pale.

She is watching the harvest moon. It is almost red, bathing the forest in surreal light. 

“Hello, Mother,” he says quietly, and lets Her turn and lay a hand on his forehead. A benediction.

“Hello, little man,” She answers, and Her teeth glint in the darkness when She smiles. _Beautiful_. Silence settles around them, peaceful.

“Tell me,” She says, and Castiel does. He tells Her about Ruth’s happiness, about his own tears, Sam’s gratitude, Dean’s love, and the words make a smile light up his face.

When he is done, Yggdrasill tilts Her head and looks him in the eyes.

“I will come back,” She says. “And you will teach me.”

Castiel bows and says nothing, because he knows that it is what he did, during those long years spent telling Her stories about humanity. He taught Her, and nothing is more humbling than a Goddess seeking knowledge.

“I will,” he whispers, and She kisses him on the forehead, feather-light.

“Goodbye, my friend.”

When he opens his eyes, he is standing alone on the roof.

 

# End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the end, guys :) I hope you enjoyed the ride. Kudos & comments are love! They literally make my day, you have no idea.
> 
> I am aware that this story has its clumsy moments, and I acknowledge its flaws fully. It’s my first long fic and only my second Dean/Castiel, but I loved writing it. 
> 
> I reiterate my thanks to VeraBAdler, who gave her time to beta this fanfiction. I certainly wouldn't have gotten around to publishing it if she hadn't been here, enduring all the angst I poured into the story with a stoicism of steel. Also, it's mostly thanks to her that you have a happy ending, because I really hesitated for a while between this ending and something more ambiguous. So, yeah, THANK YOU for your kindness, for putting up with me and for pointing out some plot-holes that would have embarrassed me greatly ;)
> 
> [ _CW: MILD SPOILERS FOR 9x06_ ] I like the idea of posting this last chapter the night Castiel and Dean will be reunited on the show, even if it's probably a strategical mistake, seeing as y'all will be (rightfully) glued to your TV screens tonight (and I'll be wallowing in a pit of self-misery, ranting about time zones and how they're a pain in my backside). Anyway, I loved writing it, and it certainly won't be my last :)

**Author's Note:**

> My knowledge of the homeless life (and of the US, for that matter) is lacking. I did a lot of research to ensure a maximal accuracy of the facts, but there are certain things that can only be brought by experience. I do not intend to offend anyone. If you think something deserves being clarified and/or modified, just drop me a comment. Title of the story from the song _So Long, Lonesome_ by _Explosions In The Sky_.
> 
>  **Additional warnings** (aka warnings that couldn't be tagged because of their specificity):
> 
> Platonic kiss between Castiel/Other, brief mentions of Castiel/Other (in thoughts only), It is really fleeting, but I know it squicks some people out so I'd rather be on the safe side and warn for it. mentions of past meg/castiel and castiel/daphne, brief instance of blood-drinking (for medical/magical reasons). A lot of OCs in this story; I couldn't reasonably write it using only the canon characters. Not only does the beginning of the story take place in a completely different setting, so it wouldn't have made sense if I'd used canon characters, but there is also the little problem that, y'know, _almost all the canon angels in SPN are dead_. So, yeah, that.  
>  EDIT: Nora's character was written before the beginning of season nine. She is an original character. I'm really sorry if it's confusing, I didn't know there would be a new lady called Nora, or I would have chosen another name. The character named Muriel that is mentioned several times is also an original character, and isn't the cute angel in Holy Terror.  
>    
> Resources: 
> 
> [Guide2Homelessness](http://guide2homelessness.blogspot.fr/%20)  
> [The Prose Edda, by Snorri Sturluson, Translated by Arthur Gilchrist Brodeur](http://openlibrary.org/books/OL6591280M/The_Prose_Edda)   
> [Inspirations for this story](http://abby-small.tumblr.com/tagged/SLL-Inspiration)   
>  
> 
> I'm [Sapphirestiel](http://sapphirestiel.tumblr.com/)  on Tumblr :)


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